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SHIPS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT.. 


"Bhips  that  pass  in  the  night,  and  Epeali  each  other  In  passing, 
Onl;  a  signal  shewn,  and  a  distant  voice  in  the  darkntss ; 
80,  on  the  ocean  of  life  we  pass  and  speak  one  another. 
Only  a  look  and  a  voice,  then  darkness  again  and  a  silence  " 


Ships  That 
Pass  In  The  Night 


BEATRICE   HARRADEN 


BOSTON 
CHARLES   E.  BROWN  &  CO. 


TO  MY  DEAB  FBIENDS, 

AGNES  AND -JOHN   KENDALL 

THIS  LITTLE   BOOK, 

ATBITTEN    MOSTLY   IN   THEIB   HOMEV 

IS  LOVIMQLY  DEDICATED. 


Jan.  12th,  1893. 


CONTENTS. 


PART  L 
CBiPTca  vaob  , 

I.  A  NewComer      ,^        ...  1 

II.  Which   contains    a  Ffw  DiCTAtLs      5 

III.  Mrs.  Rfffold    leahss  uer  Lesson 10 

IV.  Concerning  Warli  and  Marie        20 

V.  The  DisACiiEEACLE  Man          25 

VI.  TuE  Traveller  and  tiir  Temple  of  Ekowledgb  35 

VII.  Dernahdine          ...         ■',..  41 

VIII.  The  Story  move.-?  on  at  last          62 

IX.  Rernaroine  preach ns 60 

X.  The  Disacreeadle  Man  is  seen  (n  a  New  Light  70 

XI.  "If  One  has  made  ihe  One  Great  Sacrifice"  93 

XII.  The  Disagreeacle  Man  makes  a  Loax     104 

XIII.  A  Domestic  Scene         ,  120 

XIV.  Concerning  the  Cauetxkers  ..         .*       135 

XV.  Which  contains  Noihino       ..        ...  141 

XVI.  When  the  Soui,  knows  its  own   REMOUfK        ...  158 

XVII.  A  Return  to  Old  Pastures    .         161 

VIIL  A  Betrothal        ...                              .  182 

XIX.  Ships  that  speak  each  other  in  passing  .        ..  183 

XX.  A  LoVE-LETTEtt 196 


PART  II. 

I.    The  Dusting  of  the  Books    205 

II.    Bernardine  begins  her  Book         216 

III,  Failure  and  Success  :  a  Prolooue  218 

IV.  The  Disagreeable  Man  gives  up  uis  Freedom   ..  222 
V.    The  Building  of  the  Bridus          ._        ...        ...  23J 


SHIPS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

PART  I. 
CHAPTER   I. 

A   NEW-COMER. 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  remarked  one  of  the  guests  at 
the  EngHsh  table,  "yes,  indeed,  we  start  life 
thinking  that  we  shall  build  a  great  cathedral, 
a  crowning  glory  to  architecture,  and  we  end  By 
Contriving  a  mud  hut." 

"I  am  glad  you  think  so  well  of  human 
nature,"  said  the  Disagreeable  Man,  suddenly 
looking  up  from  the  newspaper  which  he  always 
read  during  meal-time.  "  I  should  be  more 
inclined  to  say  that  we  end  by  being  content  to 
dig  a  hole,  and  get  into  it,  like  the  earth  men." 

A  silence  followed  these  words  ;  the  English 
community  at  that  end  of  the  table  was  struck 

B 


2  SI/JPS    THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

with  astonishment  at  hearing  the  Disagreeable 
Man  speak.  The  few  sentences  he  had  spoken 
during  the  last  four  years  at  Petershof  were 
on  record  ;  this  was  decidedly  the  longest  of 
them  all. 

"  He  is  going  to  speak  again,"  whispered 
beautiful  Mrs.  Reffold  to  her  neighbour. 

The  Disagreeable  Man  once  more  looked  up 
from  his  newspaper. 

"  Please,  pass  me  the  Yorkshire  relish,"  he 
said  in  his  rough  way  to  a  girl  sitting  next  to 
him. 

The  spell  was  broken,  and  the  conversation 
started  afresh.  But  the  girl  who  had  passed 
the  Yorkshire  relish  sat  silent  and  listless,  her 
food  untouched,  and  her  wine  untasted.  She 
was  small  and  thin  ;  her  face  looked  haggard. 
She  was  a  new-comer,  and  had,  indeed,  arrived 
at  Petershof  only  two  hours  before  the  tahle^ 
d'hote  bell  rang.  But  there  did  not  seem  to 
be  any  nervous  shrinking  in  her  manner,  nor 
any  shyness  at  having  to  face  the  two  hundred 
and  fifty  guests  of  the  Kurhaus.  She  seemed 
rather  to  be  unaware  of  their  presence ;  or,  if 


A  NEW-COMER.  3 

iaware  of,  certainly  indifferent  to  the  scrutiny 
under  which  she  was  being  placed.  She  was 
recalled  to  reality  by  the  voice  of  the  Disagree- 
able Man.  She  did  not  hear  what  he  said, 
but  she  mechanically  stretched  out  her  hand 
and  passed  him  the  mustard-pot. 

"  Is  that  what  you  asked  for  ?  "  she  said  half 
dreamily  ;  "  or  was  it  the  water-bottle  ? " 

"  You  are  rather  deaf,  I  should  think,"  said 
the  Disagreeable  Man  placidly.  "  I  only 
remarked  that  it  was  a  pity  you  were  not  eating 
your  dinner.  Perhaps  the  scrutiny  of  the  two 
hundred  and  fifty  guests  in  this  civilized  place 
is  a  vexation  to  you." 

"  I  did  not  know  they  were  scrutinizing,"  she 
answered;  "  and  even  if  they  are,  what  does  it 
matter  to  me  ?  I  am  sure  I  am  quite  too  tired 
to  care." 

*'  Why  have  you  come  here  ? "  asked  the 
Disagreeable  Man  suddenly. 

*'  Probably  -for  the  same  reason  as  yourself," 
she  said  ;  "  to  get  better  or  well." 

"  You  won't  get  better,"  he  answered  cruelly ; 
*'  I  know  your  type  well ;  you  burn  yourselves 


4  Sff/PS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

out  quickly.  And — my  God  —  how  I  envy 
youl" 

"  So  you  have  pronounced  my  doom,"  she  said, 
looking  at  him  intently.  Then  she  laughed ; 
but  there  was  no  merriment  in  the  laughter. 

"Listen,"  she  said,  as  she  bent  nearer  to 
him;  "because you  are  hopeless,  it  does  not  follow 
that  you  should  try  to  make  others  hopeless  too. 
You  have  drunk  deep  of  the  cup  of  poison  ;  I 
can  see  that.  To  hand  the  cup  on  to  others  is 
the  part  of  a  coward." 

She  walked  past  the  English  table,  and  the 
Polish  table,  and  so  out  of  the  Kurhaus  dining- 
haU. 


CHAPTER  II 

CONTAINS  A  FEW  DETAILS. 

In  an  old  second-hand  bookshop  in  London,  an 
old  man  sat  reading  Gibbon's  History  of  Rome. 
He  did  not  put  dov/n  his  book  when  the  post- 
mstn  brought  him  a  letter.  He  just  glanced 
indifferently  at  the  letter,  and  impatiently  a.h 
the  postman.  Zerviah  Holme  did  not  like  to  be 
interrupted  when  he  was  reading  Gibbon ;  and 
as  he  was  always  reading  ^Gibbon,  an  interrup- 
tion was  always  regarded  by  him  as  an  insult. 

About  two  hours  afterwards,  he  opened  the 
letter,  and  learnt  that  his  niece,  Bernardine, 
had  arrived  safely  in  Petershof,  and  that  she 
intended  to  get  better  and  come  home,  strong. 
He  tore  up  the  letter,  and  instinctively  turned 


6  SHIPS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

to  the  photograph  on  the  mantelpiece.  It  was 
the  picture  of  a  face  young  and  yet  old,  sad 
and  yet  with  possibilities  of  merriment,  thin  and 
drawn  and  almost  wrinkled,  and  with  piercing 
eyes  which,  even  in  the  dull  lifelessness  of  the 
photograph,  seemed  to  be  burning  themselves 
away.  Not  a  pleasing  nor  a  good  face;  yet 
intensely  pathetic  because  of  its  undisguised 
harassment. 

Zerviah  looked  at  it  for  a  moment. 

"  She  has  never  been  much  to  either  of  us," 
he  said  to  himself  "  And  yet,  when  Malvina 
was^live,  I  used  to  think  that  sh6  was  hard  on 
Bernardine.  I  believe  I  said  so  once  or  twice. 
But  Malvina  had  her  own  way  of  looking  at 
things.  Well,  that  is  over  now." 
,  He  then,,  with  characteristic  speed,  dismissed 
all  thoughts  which  did  not  relate  to  Roman 
History  ;  and  the  remembrance  of  Malvina,  his 
wife,  and  Bernardine,  his  niece,  took  up  an 
accustomed  position  in  the  background  of  his 
mind. 

Bernardine  had  suffered  a  cheerless  childhood 
in  which  dolls  and  toys  took  no  leading  part 


CONTAINS  A  FEIV  DETAILS.  ? 

She  had  no  affection  to  bestow  on  any  doll,  nor 
any  woolly  lamb,  nor  apparently  on  any  human 
person ;  unless,  perhaps,  there  was  the  possibility 
of'a  friendly  inclination  towards  Uncle  Zerviah, 
who  would  not  have  understood  the  value  of 
any  deeper  feeling,  and  did  not  therefore  call 
the  child  cold-hearted  and  unresponsive,  as  he 
might  well  have  done. 

This  she  certamly  was,  judged  by  the  standard 
of  other  children  ;  but  then  no  softening  influ- 
ences had  been  at  work  durinor  her  tenderest 
years.  Aunt  Malvina  knew  as  much  about 
sympathy  as  she  did  about  the  properties  of  an 
ellipse  ,  and  even  the  fairies  had  failed  to  win 
little  Bernardino.  At  first  they  tried  with 
loving  patience  what  they  might  do  for  her  ; 
they  came  out  of  their  books,  and  danced  and 
sang  to  her,  and  whispered  sweet  stories  to  her, 
at  twilight,  the  fairies'  own  time.  But  she 
would  have  none  of  them,  for  all  their  gentle 
persuasion.  So  they  ^gave  up  trying  to  please 
her,  and  left  her  as  they  had  found  her,  loveless. 
What  can  be  said  of  a  childhood  which  even  the 
fairies  have  failed  to  touch  with  the  warm  glow 
of  affection  ? 


8  $mPS  THAT  PASS  JN  THE  NIGHT. 

Sucli  a  little  restless  spirit,  striving  to  express, 
itself  now  in  tliis  direction,  now  in  that;  yet 
always  actuated  by  the  same  constant  force,  the. 
desire  for  work.  Bernardine  seemed  to  have  no 
special  wish  to  be  useful  to  others  ;  she  seemed 
-just  to  have  a  natural  tendency  to  work,  even  as 
others  have  a  natural  tendency  to  play.  She 
was  always  in  earnest ;  life  for  little  Bernardine 
meant  something  serious. 

Then  the  years  went  by.  She  grew  up  and 
filled  her  life  with  many  interests  and  ambitions. 
She  was  at  least  a  worker,  if  nothing  else ;  she 
had  always  been  a  diligent  scholar,  and  now  she 
took  her  place  as  an  able  teacher.  She  was 
self-reUant,  and,*  perhaps,  somewhat  conceited. 
But,  at  least,  Bernardine  the  young  woman 
had  learnt  something  which  Bernardine  the 
young  child  had  not  been  able  to  learn  :  she 
learnt  how  to  smile.  It  took  her  about  six  and 
twenty  years  to  learn ;  still,  some  people  take 
longer  than  that;  in  fact,  many  never  learn. 
This  is  a  brief  siunmary  of  Bernardine  Holme's 
past. 

Then,  one  day,  when  she  was  in  the  full  swing 


CONTAINS  A  FEW  DETAILS.  9 

of  her  many  engrossing  occupations  :  teaching, 
writing  articles  for  newspapers,  attending  social- 
istic meetings,  and  taking  part  in  political 
discussions — she  was  essentially  a  "  modern 
product,"  this  Bernardino — one  day  she  fell  ill. 
She  lingered  in  London  for  some  time,  and  then 
she  went  to  Petex'shof. 


CHAPTEE  m. 

MBS.    REFFOLD  LEAENS  HER  LESSON. 

Peteeshof  was  a  winter  resort  for  consumptive 
patients,  thougli,  indeed,  many  people  who 
simply  needed  the  change  of  a  bracing  climate 
went  there  to  spend  a  few  months  ;  and  came 
away  wonderfully  better  for  the  mountain  air. 
This  was  what  Bernardino  Holme  hoped  to  do ; 
she  was  broken  do^Ti  in  every'  way,  but  it  was 
thought  that  a  prolonged  stay  in  Petershof 
might  help  her  back  to  a  reasonable  amount  of 
health,  or,  at  least,  prevent  her  from,  slipping 
into  further  decline.  She  had  come  alone, 
because  she  had  no  relations  except  that  old 
uncle,  and  no  money  to  pay  any  friend  who 
jnio-ht  have  been  \s-illing  to  come  wi^h  her.  But 


if&S.   FEFfOLD  LEARNS  HER  LESSOy.  tl 

she  probabljl^ed  very  little," and  the  monmig 
afrer  her  arrival,  she  strolled  out  by  herself 
investigating  the  place  where  she  was  about  to 
spend  six  months.  She  was  6ta^z' i:  herself 
along,  when  she  met  the  Disagreeab-e  T I  r.  She 
stopped  him.  He  was  not  accusicr.ei  ::'  be 
stopped  by  any  one,  and  he  looked  latl^er 
astonished. 

"  You  were  not  very  cheering  last  night,"  she 
said  to  him. 

'•'  I  believe  I  am  nd  generally  considered  to 
be  lively,"  he  answered,  as  he  kncckri  the  sncvr 
off  his  boot 

'•'  StiU,  I  am  sorry  I  spoke  to  j^ou  as  I  did," 
she  went  on  frankly.  "  It  was  foolish  of  me  to 
mind  what  you  said." 

He  made  no  reference  to  his  own  remark,  and 
was  passing  on  his  way  again,  when  he  turned 
back  and  walked  with  her. 

"I  have  been  here  nearly  seven  years"  he 
said,  and  there  was  a  ring  of  sadness  in  his 
voice  as  he  spoke,  whicli  he  immediately  cor- 
rected. "  K  you  want  to  know  anything  about 
the  place,  I  can  teU  j-ou.     If  you  are  able  to 


1?  Sa/PS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

walk,  I  can  show  you  some  lovely  spots,  where 
you  will  not  be  bothered  with  people.  1  can 
take  you  to  a  snow  fairy-land.  If  you  are  sad 
and  disappointed,  you  will  find  shining  comfort 
there.  It  is  not  all  sadness  in  Petershof.  In 
the  silent  snow  forests,  if  you  dig-  the  snow 
away,  you  will  find  the  tiny  bud  nestling  in 
theu"  white  nursery.  If  the  sun  does  not  dazzle 
your  eyes,  you'  may  always  see  the  great  moun- 
tains piercing  the  sky.  These  wonders  have 
been  a  happiness  to  me.  You  are  not  too  ill 
but  that  they  may  be  a  happmess  to  you  also." 

"  Nothing  can  be  much  of  a  happiness  to 
me,"  she  said,  half  to  herself,  and  her  lips 
quivered.  "I  have  had  to  give  up  so  much  :  all 
my  work,  all  my  ambitions." 

"  You  are  not  the  only  one  who  has  had  to 
do  that,"  he  said  sharply.  "  Why  make  a  fuss? 
Things  arrange  themselves,  and  eventually  we 
adjust  ourselves  to  the  new  arrangement.  A 
great  deal  of  caring  and  grieving,  phase  one;  still 
more  caring  and  grieving,  phase  two  ;  less  caring 
and  grieving,  phase  three  ;  no  further  feeling 
whatsoever,  phase  four.     Mercifully   I  am   at 


MRS.  REFFOLD  LEARNS  HER  LESSON.  13 

phase  four.     You  are  at  phase  one.     Make  a 
quick  journey  over  the  stages." 

He  turned  and  left  her,  and  she  strolled  along, 
thinking  of  his  words,  wondering  how  long  it 
would  take  her  to  arrive  at  his  indifference. 
She  had  always  looked  upon  indifference  as 
paralysis  of  the  soul,  and  paralysis  meant  death, 
nay,  was  worse  than  death.  And  here  was  this 
man,  who  had  obviously  suffered  both  mentally 
and  physically,  telling  her  that  the  only  sensible 
course  was  to  learn  not  to  care.  How  could  she 
learn  not  to  care  ^  All  her  life  long  she  had 
studied  and  worked  and  cultivated  hei'self  in 
every  direction  in  the  hope  of  being  able  to 
take  a  high  place  in  literature,  or,  in  any  case, 
to  do  something  in  life  distinctly  better  than 
what  other  people  did.  When  everything  was 
coming  near  to  her  grasp,  when  there  seemed  a 
fair  chance  of  realizing  her  ambitions,  she  had 
suddenly  fallen  iH,  broken  up  so  entirely  in 
every  way,  that  those  who  knew  her  when  she 
'  was  well,  could  scarcely  recognize  her  now  that 
she  was  ill.  The  doctors  spoke  of  an  over- 
rtraiued  nervous    system  : '  the    pestilence    of 


14  SHIPS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

these  modern  days ;  they  spoke  of  rest,  change 
of  work  and  scene,  bracing  air.  She  might 
regain  her  vitahty  ;  she  might  not.  Those  who 
had  played  themselves  out  must  pay  the  penalty. 
She  was  thinking  of  her  whole  history,  pitying 
herself  profoundly,  coming  to  the  conclusion, 
after  ti*ue  human  fashion,  that  she  was  the 
worst-used  person  on  earth,  and  that  no  one 
but  herself  knew  what  disappointed  ambitions 
were ;  she  was  thinking  of  all  this,  and  looking 
profoundly  miserable  and  martyr-hke,  when  some 
one  called  her  by  her  name.  She  looked  round 
and  saw  one  of  the  English  ladies  belonging  to 
the  Kurhaus ;  Bernardine  had  noticed  her  the 
previous  night.  She  seemed  in  capital  spirits,  and 
had  three  or  four  admirers  waiting  on  her  very 
words.  She  was  a  tall,  handsome  woman, 
dressed  in  a  superb  fur-trimmed  cloak,  a  woman 
of  splendid  bearing  and  address.  Bernardine 
looked  a  contemptible  little  piece  of  humanity 
beside  her.  Some  such  impression  conveyed 
itself  to  the  two  men  who  were  walking  with 
Mrs.  Reflfold.  They  looked  at  the  one  woman, 
and  then  at  the  other,  and  smiled  at  each  otheri 
as  men  do  smile  on  such  occasions, 


MRS.  REFFOLD  LEARNS  HER  LESSON.  15 

"I  am  gcini^  to  speak  to  this  little  thing," 
Mrs.  Reffold  had  said  to  her  two  companions 
before  they  came  near  Bernardine.  "  I  must 
find  out  who  she  is,  and  where  she  comes  from. 
And,  fancy,  she  has  come  quite  alone.  I  have 
inquired.  How  hopelessly  out  of  fashion  she 
dresses.     And  what  a  hat  1 " 

"  I  should  not  take  the  trouble  to  speak  to 
her,"  said  one  of  the  men.  "  She  may  fasten 
herself  on  to  you.  You  know  what  a  -bore 
that  is." 

"  Oh,  I  can  easily  snub  any  one  if  I  wish," 
replied  Mrs.  Reffold,  rather  disdainfully. 

So  she  hastened  up  to  Bernardine,  and  held 
out  her  well-gloved  hand. 

"  I  had  not  a  chance  of  speaking  to  you  last 
night.  Miss  Holme,"  she  said.  "  You  retired  so 
early.  I  hope  you  have  rested  ,after  your 
journey.     You  seemed  quite  worn  out." 

"  Thai^  you,"  said  Bernardine,  looking  ad- 
miringly at  the  beautiful  woman,  and  envying 
her,  just  as  all  plain  women  envy  their  hand- 
Bome  sisters. 

"  You  are  not  alone,  I  suppose  ? "  continued 
Mrs.  RefFold, 


le  SHIPS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

**  Yes,  quite  alone,"  answered  Bernard  ine. 

""  But  you  are  evidently  acquainted  with  Mr. 
AUitsen,  your  neighbour  at  table."  said  'Mss. 
Reffold  ;  "so  you  will  not  feel  quite  lonely  here. 
It  is  a  great  advantage  to  have  a  friend  at  a 
place  like  this." 

"I  never  saw  him  before  last  night,"  said 
Bernardino. 

"  Is  it  possible  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Reffold,  in  her 
pleasantest  voice.  "  Then  you  have  made  a 
triumph  of  the  Disagreeable  Man.  He  very 
rarely  deigns  to  talk  with  any  of  us.  He  does 
not  even  appear  to  see  us.  He  sits  quietly  and 
reads.  It  would  be  interesting  to  hear  what 
his  conversation  is  like.  I  should  be  quite 
amused  to  know  what  you  did  talk  about." 

*'  I  dare  say  you  would,"  said  Bernardine 
quietly. 

Then  Mrs.  Reffold,  wishing  to  screen  her 
inquisitiveness,  plunged  into  a  description  of 
Petershof  life,  speaking  enthusiastically  about 
everything,  except  the  scenery,  which  she  did 
not  mention.  After  a  time  she  ventured  to 
begin  once  more  taking  soundings.     But  some- 


MRS.  REFFOLD  LcJlRNS  BER  LESSON.  17 

how  or  other,  those  bright  eyes  of  Bernardine, 
which  looked  at  her  so  searchingly,  made  her  a 
little  nervous,  and,  perhaps,  a  little  indiscreet. 

"  Your  father  will  miss  you,  she  said 
tentatively. 

."  I  should  think  probably  not,"  answered  Ber- 
nardino. "  One  is  not  easily  missed,  you  know." 
\There  was  a  twinkle  in  Bernardino's  eye  as  she 
^dded,  "He  is  probably  occupied  with  other 
(things." 

^."  What  is  your  father  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Eeffold, 
in  her  most  coaxing  tones. 

"I  don't  know  what  he  is  now,"  answered 
Bernardine  placidly.  "  But  he  was  a  genius.  He 
is  dead." 

Mrs.  Reffold  gave  a  slight  start,  for  she  began 
to  feel  that  this  insignificant  little  person  was 
making  fun  of  her.  This  would  never  do,  and 
before  witnesses  too.  So  she  gathered  together 
her  best  resources  and  said  : 

"  Dear  me,  how  very  unfortunate :  a  genius 
too.  Death  is  indeed  cruel.  And  here  one  sees  so 
much  of  it,  that  unless  one  learns  to  steel  one's 
heart,    one    becomes    melancholy.      Ah,    it    isf 


f8  SHIPS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

indeed  sad.  to  see  all  this  suffering!"  (Mrs. 
Reffold  herself  had  quite  succeeded  in  steeling 
her  heart  against  her  own '^invalid  husband.) 
She  then  gave  an  account  of  several  bad 
cases  of  cohsumptlon,  not  forgetting  to  mention 
two  instances  of  suicide  which  had  lately  taken 
place  in  Petershof. 

**  One  gentleman  was  a  !K.ussian,'*  she  said. 
"  Fancy  coming  all  the  way  from  Hussia 
to  this  little  out-of-the-world  .place !  But 
people'  come  from  the  uttermost  ends  of  the 
earth,  though  of  course  there  are -many 
Londoners  here.  I  suppose .  you  are  from 
London  ? " 

"  I  am  not  living  in  London  .  now,"  said 
Bernardino  cautiously. 

"  But  you  know  it,  without  doubt,"  continued 
Mrs.  Reffold.  "  There  are  several  Kensington 
people  here.  You  may  meet  some  friends  ; 
indeed*  in  our  hotel  there  are  two  or  three 
families  from  Lexham  Gardens." 

Bernardino  "smiled  a  little  viciously ;  lookjd 
first  at  Mrs.  Beffold's  two  companions  with  an> 
amused  sort  of  indulgence,  and  then  at  the  lady 


AlJiS.  REFFOLD  LEARNS  HER  LESSON.  19 

hetsejf.       She    paused    a    moment,   and  then 
said: 

"Have  you  asked  all  the  questions. you  wish 
to  ask?  And,  if  so,  may  I  ask  one  of  you  ? 
Where  does  one  get  the  best  tea  ?  " 

Mrs,  Heffold  gave  an  inward  gasj^,  hut  pointed 
gracefully  to  a  small  confectionery  shop  on  the 
other  side  of  the  road.  Mrs.  Ileffold  did  every- 
thing gracefully. 

Bernardine  thanked  her,  crossed  the  road,  and 
passed  into  the  shop. 

"  Now  I  have  taught  her  a  lesson  not  to 
interfere  with  me,"  said  Bernardine  to  herself. 
"  How  heautiful  she  is." 

Mrs.  KefFold  and  her  two  companions  went 
silently  on  their  way.  At  last  the  silence  was 
broken. 

"  Well,  I'm  blessed  ! "  said  the  taller  of  the 
two,  lighting  a  cigar. 

"  So  am  I,"  said  the  other,  lighting  his  cigar 
too. 

"Those  are  precisely  rriy  own  feelings," 
remarked  Mrs.  Reffold. 

But  she  had  learnt  her  lesson. 

n  2 


CHAPTER  IV. 

CONCERNING   WARLI   AND   MARIE 

Warli,  the  little  hunchback  postman,  a  cheery 
soul,  came  whistling  up  the  Kurhaus  stairs, 
carrying  with  him  that  precious  parcel  of  regis- 
tered letters,  which  gave  him  the  position  of 
being  the  most  important  person  in  Petershof. 
He  was  a  linguist,  too,  was  Warli,  and 
could  speak  broken  English  in  a  most  fascinating 
way,  agi-eeable  to  every  one,  but  intelligible 
only  to  himself.  Well,  he  came  whistling  up 
the  stairs,  when  he  heard  Mane's  blithe  voice 
humming  her  favourite  spinning-song. 

Ei,  Ei !  "  he  said  to  himself;  "Marie  is  in 
a  good,  temper  to-day.  I  will  give  her  a  call  as 
I  pass." 


CONCERNING  IVARLI  AND  MARIE.  21 

He  arranged  his  neckerchief  and  smoothed 
his  curls  ;  and  when  he  reached  the  end  of  the 
landing,  he  paused  outside  a  little  glass-door, 
and,  all  unobserved,  watched  Marie  in  her  pantry 
cleaning  the  candlesticks  and  lamps. 

Marie  heard  a  knock,  and,  looking  up  from 
her  work,  saw  Warli. 

"  Good  day,  Warli,"  she  said,  glancing  hur- 
riedly at  a  tiny  broken  mirror  suspended  on 
the  wall.  "  I  suppose  you  have  a  letter  for  me. 
How  delightful  !  " 

"  Never  mind  about  the  letter  just  now,"  he 
said,  waving  his  hand  as  thousfh  wishing  to 
dismiss  the  subject.  "  How  nice  to  hear  you 
singing  so  sweetly,  Marie !  Dear  me,  in  the 
old  days  at  Grlisch,  how  often  I  have  heard 
that  song  of  the  spinning-wheels.  You  have 
forgotten  the  old  days,  Marie,  though  you 
remember  the  song." 

"  Give  me  my  letter,  Warli,  and  go  about 
your  work,"  said  Marie,  pretending  to  be 
impatient.  But  all  the  same  her  eyes  looked 
extremely  friendly.  There  was  something  very 
winning  about  the  hunchback's  face. 


22  SHIi  S  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

"  Ah,  ah  !  Marie,"  he  said,  shaking  his  curly 
head  ;  "I  know  how  it  is  with  you  :  you" only 
like  people  in  fine  binding.  They  have  not 
always  fine  hearts," 

"  What  nonsense  you  talk,  Wiirli ! "  said 
Mane.  "  There,  just  hand  me  the  oil-can.  You 
can  fill  this  lamp  for  me.  Not  too  full,  you 
goose !  And  this  one  also  ;  ah,  you're  letting 
the  oil  trickle  down  !  Why,  you're  not  fit  for 
anything  except  carrying  letters  !  Here,  give 
me  my  letter." 

"  What  pretty  flowers,"  said  Wiirli.  "  Now 
if  there  is  one  thing  I  do  like,  it  is  a  flower. 
Can  you  spare  me  one,  Marie  ?  Put  one  in  niy 
button-hole,  do  ! " 

"You  are  a  nuisance  this  afternoon,"  said 
Marie,  smiling  and  pinning  a  flower  on  Warli's 
blue  coat.     Just  then  a  bell  rang  violently. 

""  Those  Portuguese  ladies  will  drive  me  quite 
mad,"  said  Marie.  "  They  always  ring  just 
when  I  am  enjoying  myself." 

"When  you  are  enjoying  yourself!"  said 
Warli  triumphantly. 

''  Of  course,"  returned  Marie  ;  "  I  always  do 
enjoy  cleaning  the  od-lamps  ;  I  always  did  I " 


CONCERNING  WARLI  AND  MARIE,  23 

"  All,  I'd  forgotten  the  oil-lamps ! "  said 
Warli. 

"  And  so  had  I ! "  laughed  Marie,  "  Na,  na„ 
there  goes  that  bell  again!  Won't  they  be 
angry !  "Won't  they  scold  at  me  !  Here,  Warli, . 
give  me  my  letter,  and  I'll  be  off." 

"  I  never  told  you  I  had  any  letter  for  you," 
remarked  Warli.  "  It  was  entirely  your  own 
idea.     Good  afternoon,  Friiulein  Marie." 

The  Portuguese  ladies'  bell  rang  again,  still 
more  passionately  this  time  ;  but  Marie  did  not 
seem  to  hear  nor  care.  She  wished  to  be 
revenged  on  that  impudent  postman.  She  went 
to  the  top  of  the  stairs  and  .called  after  Wiirli 
in  her  most  coaxing  tones  '. 

'-X)o  step  down  one  moment ;  I  want  to  show 
you  something ! " 

"I  must  deliver  the  registered  letters,"  said 
Wiirli,  with  official  haughtiness.  ''I  have- 
already  wasted  too  much  of  my  time." 

"Won't  you'  waste  a  few  more  minutes  on 
me? "pleaded  Marie  pathetically.  "It  is  not 
often  I  see  you  now," 

Warli  came  down  again,  looking  very  happy. 


24  SH}rS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

"  I  want  to  show  you  such  a  beautiful  photo- 
graph I've  had  taken,"  said  Marie.  "  Ach,  it  is 
beautiful ! " 

"  You  must  give  one  to  me,"  said  Wiirli 
eagerly. 

"  Oh,  I  can't  do  that,"  replied  Marie,  as  she 
opened  the  drawer  and  took  out  a  small  packet. 
"  It  was  a  present  to  me  from  the  Polish  gentle 
man  himself  He  saw  me  the  other  day  here  in 
the  pantry.  I  was  so  tired,  and  I  had  fallen 
asleep,  with  my  broom,  just  as  you  see  me  here. 
So  he  made  a  photogi^aph  of  me.  He  admires 
me  vei'y  much.  Isn't  it  nice  ?  and  isn't  the 
Polish  gentleman  clever  ?  and  isn't  it  nice  to 
have  so  much  attention  paid  to  one?  Oh, 
there's  that  horrid  bell  again  !  Good  afternoon, 
Herr  Warli.  That  is  all  I  have  to  say  to  you, 
thank  you." 

Warli's  feelings  towards  the  Polish  gentleman 
were  not  of  the  friendliest  that  day. 


CHAPTER   V. 

THE   DISAGREEABLE   UAif. 

Robert  Allitsen  told  Bernardine  that  she 
was  not  likely  to  be  on  friendly  terms  with  the 
English  people  in  the  Kurhaus. 

"  They  will  not  care  about  you,  and  you  will 
not  care  about  the  foreigners.  So  you  will  thus 
be  thrown  on  your  c  "zi  resources,  just  as  I  was 
■  hen  I  came." 

■'  I  cannot  say  that  I  have  any  resources," 
Jjcrnardine  answered.  "  I  don't  feel  well  enough 
to  try  to  do  any  writing,  or  else  it  would  be 
delightful  to  have  the  uninterrupted  leisure." 

So  she  had  probably  told  him  a  little  about 
her  life  and  occupation  ;  although  it  was  not 
likely  that  she  would  have  given  him  any  serious 


2fi  SHirS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

confidences.  Still,  people  are  often  surprisingly 
frank  about  themselves,  even  those  who  pride 
themselves  upon  being  the  most  reticent  mortals 
in  the  world. 

"  Biit  now,  having  the  leisure,"  she  continued, 
"  I  have  not  the  brains." 

"  I  never  knewauv  writer -who  had,"  said  the 
Disagreeable  Man  grimly. 

"  Perhaps  your  experience  has  been  limited," 
she  suggested. 

"  Why  don't  you  read  ?  "  he  said.  "  There  Is 
a  good  library  here.  It  contains  all  the  books 
we  don't  want  to  read." 

"  I  am  tired  of  reading,"  Bernardlne  said. 
"I  seem  to  have  been  reading  all  my  life.  My 
uncle,  with  whom  I  live,  keeps  a  second-hand 
book-shop,  and  ever  since  I  can  remember,  I 
have  been  surrounded  by  books.  They  have 
not  done  me  much  good,  -nor  any  one  else 
either." 

"  No,  probably  not,"  he  said.  "  But  now 
that  you  have  left  off  reading,  you  will  have  a 
chance  of  learning  something,  if  you  live  long 
enough.     It  is  wonderful  how  much  one  does 


THE  DISAGREEABLE  MAN.  27 

leam  when  one  does  not  read.  It  is  almost 
awful.  If  you  don't  care  about  reading  now, 
why  do  you  not  occupy  youi'self  with  cheese- 
mites  ? " 

"  I  do  not  feel  drawn  towards  cheese-mites." 

"  Perhaps  not,  at  first ;  but  all  the  same  they 
form  a  subject  which  is  very  engaging.  -  Or  any 
branch  of  bacteriology." 

"Well,  if  you  were  to  lend  me  your  micro- 
scope, perhaps  I  might  begin." 

"  I  could  not  do  that,"  he  answered  quickly. 
"  I  never  lend  my  things." 

"  No,  I  did  not  suppose  you  would,"  she  said, 
"  I  knew  I  was  safe  in  making  the  suggestion." 

"  You  are  rather  quick  of  perception  in  spite  of 
all  your  book  reading,"  he  said.  "  Yes,  you  are 
quite  right.  I  am  selfish.  I  dislike  lending 
ray  things,  and  I  dislike  spending  my  money 
except  on  myself.  If  you  have  the  misfortune 
to  linger  on  as  I  do,  you  will  know  that  it  is 
perfectly  legitimate  to  be  selfish  in  small  things, 
if  one  has  made  the  one  areat  sacrifice." 

"  And  what  may  that  be  ? " 

She  asked  so  eagerly  that  he  looked  at  her. 


23  S///rS   THAT  PASS   IN  THE  NIGHT. 

and  then  saw  how  worn  and  thred  her  face  was ; 
and  the  words  which  he  was  uitending  to  speak, 
died  on  his  hps. 

"  Look  at  those  asses  of  people  on  toboggans," 
he  said  brusquely.  "  Could  you  manage  to  enjoy 
yourself  in  that  way  %  That  might  do  you 
good." 

''  Yes,"  she  said  ;  "  but  it  would  not  be  any 
pleasure  to  me," 

She  stopped  to  watch  the  toboggans  flying 
down  the  road.  And  the  Disagreeable  Man 
went  his  own  solitary  way,  a  forlorn  figure,  with 
a  face  almost  expressionless,  and  a  manner 
wholly  impenetrable. 

He  had  lived  nearly  seven  years  at  Petershof, 
and,  like  many  others,  was  obliged  to  continue 
staymg  there  if  he  wished  to  continue  staying 
in  this  planet.  It  was  not  probable  that  he 
had  any  wish  to  prolong  his  frail  existence,  but 
he  did  his  duty  to  his  mother  by  conserving  his 
life  ;  and  this  feeble  flame  of  duty  and  affection 
was  the  only  lingering  bit  of  warmth  in  a  heart 
frozen  almost  by  ill  heaith  and  disappointed 
ambitions.     The  moralistc  tell  us  that  sufferinr 


THE  DISAGREEABLE  HI  APT.  59 

ennobles,  and  that  a  right  acceptation  of 
hindrances  goes  towards  forming  a  beautiful 
character.  But  this  result  must  largely  depend 
on  the  original  character  :  certainly,  in  the  case 
of  Robert  Allitsen,  suffering  had  not  ennobled 
his  mind,  nor  disappointment  sweetened  his 
disposition.  His  title  of  "  Disagreeable  Man  " 
had  been  fairly  earned,  and  he  hugged  it  to 
himself  with  a  triumphant  secret  satisfac- 
tion. 

There  were  some  people  in  Petershof  who 
were  inclined  to  believe  certain  absurd  rumours 
about  his  alleged  kindness.  It  was  said  that 
on  more  than  one  occasion  he  had  nursed  the 
suffering  and  the  dying  in  sad  Petershof,  and, 
with  all  the  sorrowful  tenderness  worthy  of  a 
loving  mother,  had  helped  them  to  take  their 
leave  of  life.  But  these  were  only  rumours, 
and  there  was  nothing  in  Robert  Allitsen's 
ordinary  bearing  to  justify  such  talk.  So  the 
foolish  people  who,  for  the  sake  of  making 
themselves  peculiar,  revived  these  unlikely 
fictions,  were  speedily  ridiculed  and  reduced  to 
silence.     And  the  DisaOTceable  Man  remained 


30  Sinrs  THAT  PASS  m  THE  NIGHT. 

the  Disagreeable  Man,  with  a  clean  record  for 
unamiability. 

He  lived  a  life  apart  from  others.  Most  of 
his  time  was  occupied  in  photogr-aphy,  or  in  the 
use  and  study  of  the  microscope,  or  in  chemistry. 
His  photographs  were  considered  to  be  most 
beautiful.  Not  that  he  showed  them  specially 
to  any  one ;  but  he  generally  sent  a  specimen 
of  his  work  to  the  Monthly  Photograph  Port- 
folio, and  hence  it  was  that  people  learned  to 
know  of  his  skill.  He  might  be  seen  any  fine 
day  trudging  along  in  company  with  his  photo- 
graphic apparatus,  and  a  desolate  dog,  who 
looked  almost  as  cheerless  as  his  chosen  comrade. 
Neither  the  one  took  any  notice  of  the  other; 
Allitsen  was  no  more  genial  to  the  dog  than  he 
was  to  the  Kurhaus  guests;  the  dog  was  no 
more  demonstrative  to  'Hobert  Allitsen  than  he 
•was  to  any  one  in  Petershof, 

Still,  they  were  "  something  "  to  each  other  : 
that  unexplainable  "  something  "  which  has  to 
explain  almost  every  kind  of  attachment. 

He  had  no  friends  In  Petershof,  and  appar- 
,€ntly  had  no  friends  anywhere.     No  one  wrot^ 


THE  DISAGREEABLE  MAN.  81 

to  him,  except  his  old  mother ;  the  papers  which 
were  sent  to  him  came  from  a  stationer's. 

He  read  all  during  meal-time.  But  now  and 
again  he.  spoke  a  few  words  with  Bernardine 
•Holme,  whose  place  was  next  to  him.  It  never 
occurred  to  him  to  say  good  morning,  nor  to  give 
a  greeting  of  any  kind,  nor  to  show  a  courtesy. 
One  day  during  lunch,  however,  he  did  take 
the  trouble  to  stoop  and  pick  up  Bernardine 
Holme's  shawl,  which  jiad  fallen  for  the  third 
time  to  the  ground. 

"I  never  s^w  a  female  wear  a  sliawl  more 
carelessly  than  you,"  he  said.  "You.  don't, 
seem  to  know  anything  about  it." 

His  manner  was  always  gruff.  Every  one 
complained  of  him.  Every  one  always  had 
complained  of  him.  He  had  never  been  heard 
to  laugh.  Once  or  twice  he  had  been  seen  to 
smile  on  occasions  when  people  talked  confi- 
dently of  recovering  their  health.  It  was  a 
beautiful  smile  worthy  of  a  better  cause.  It 
was  a  smile  which  made  one  pause  to  wonder 
what  could  have  been  the  origmal  disposition  of 
the  Disagreeable  Man  before  ill -health  had  cut 


32  SHIPS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT, 

him  oflP  from  the  affairs  of  active  life.  Was  he 
happy  or  unhappy  ?  It  was  not  known.  He 
gave  no  sign  of  either  the  one  state  or  the  other. 
He  always  looked  very  ill,  but  he  did  not 
seem  to  get  worse.  He  had  never  been  known 
to  make  the  faintest  allusion  to  his  own  health. 
He  never  "  smoked  "  his  thermometer  in  public  ; 
and  this  was  the  more  remarkable  in  an  hotel 
where  people  would  even  leave  off  a  conver- 
sation and  say  :  "  Excuse  me,  Sir  or  Madam,  I 
must  now  take  my  temperature.  We  will 
resume  the  topic  in  a  few  minutes." 

He  never  lent  any  papers  or  books  ;  and  he 
never  borrowed  any. 

He  had  a  room  at  the  top  of  the  hotel,  and 
he  lived  his  life,  amongst  his  chemistry  bottles, 
his  scientific  books,  his  microscope,  and  his 
camera.  He  never  sat  in  any  of  the  hotel 
drawing-rooms.  There  was  nothing  striking 
nor  eccentric  about  his  appearance.  He  was 
neither  ugly  nor  good-looking,  neither  tall  nor 
short,  neither  fair  nor  dark.  He  was  thin  and 
frail,  and  rather  bent.  But  that  might  be  the 
description  of  any  one  in  Petershof    There  was 


THE   DISAGREEABLE  MAN.  33 

nothing  pathetic  about  him,  no  suggestion  even 
of  poetry,  which  gives  a  reverence  to  suffering, 
whether  mental  or  physical.  As  there  was  no 
expression  on  his  face,  so  also  there  was  no 
expression  m  his  eyes :  no  distant  longing,  no 
far-off  fixedness ;  nothing,  indeed,  to  awaken 
sad  sympa,thy. 

The  only  positive  thing  about  him  was  his 
rudeness.  Was  it  natural  or  cultivated  ?  No 
one  in  Petershof  could  say.  He  had  always 
been  as  he  was ;  and  there  was  no  reason  to 
suppose  that  he  would  ever  be  different. 

He  was,  in  fact,  like  the  glacier  of  which  he 
had  such  a  fine  view  from  his  room;  like  the 
glacier,  an  unchanging  feature  of  the  neigh- 
bourhood. 

No  one  loved  it  better  than  the  Disagreeable 
Man  did ;  he  watched  the  sunlight  on  it,  now- 
pale  golden,  now  fiery  red.  He  loved  the  sky, 
the  dull  grey,  or  the  bright  blue.  He  loved 
the  snow  forests,  and  the  snow-girt  streams, 
and  the  ice  cathedrals,  and  the  great  '  firs 
patient  beneath  their  snow  -  burden.  He 
loved   the    frozen  '  waterfalls,   and   the   costly 


34  SHIPS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

diamonds  in  the  snow.  He  knew,  too, 
.where  the  flowers  nestled  in  their  white 
nursery.  He  was,  indeed,  an  authority  on 
Alpine  botany.  The  same  tender  hands  which 
plucked  the  flowers  in  the  spring-time,  dis- 
sected them  and  laid  them  bare  beneath  the 
microscope.  But  he  did  not  love  them  the  less 
for  that. 

Were  these  pursuits  a  comfort  to  him  ?  Did 
they  help  him  to  forj^et  that  there  was  a  time 
when  he,  too,  was  burninj^  with  ambition  to 
distinguish  himself,  and  be  one  of  the  marked 
men  of  the  age  ? 

Who  could  say  ? 


CHAPTER   VI. 

THE  TRAVELLER  AND  THE  TEMPLE  OF 
KNOWLEDGE. 

Countless  ages  ago  a  Traveller,  much  worn 
with  journeying,  climbed  up  the  last  bit  of 
rough  road  which  led  to  the  summit  of  a  high 
mountain.  There  was  a  temple  on  that  moun- 
tain. And  the  Traveller  had  vowed  that  he 
would  reach  it  before  death  prevented  him. 
He  knew  the  journey  was  long,  and  the  road 
rough.  He  knew  that  the  mountain  was  the 
most  difficult  of  ascent  of  that  mountain  chain, 
called  "  The  Ideals."  But  he  had  a  strongly- 
hoping  heart  and  a  sure  foot.  He  lost  all 
sense  of  time,  but  he  never  lost  the  feeling  of 
hope. 

"  Even  if  I  faint  by  the  way-side,"  he  said  tc 


36  SHIPS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

himself,  "and  am  not  able  to  reach  the  summit, 
still  it  is  something  to  be  on  the  road  which 
leads  to  the  High  Ideals.  " 

That  was  how  he  comforted  himself  when  he 
was  weary.  He  never  lost  more  hope  than 
that ;  and  surely  that  was  little  enough. 
And  now  he  had  reached  the  temple.' 
He  rang  the  bell,  and  an  old  white-haired 
man  opened  the  gate.  He  smiled  sadly  when 
he  saw  the  Traveller. 

*^ And    yet     another    one"    he    murmured, 
"  "  What  does  it  all  mean  ? " 

The  Traveller  did  not  hear  what  he  mur- 
mured. 

"  Old  white-haired  man,"  he  said,  "tell  me  ; 
and  so  I  have  come  at  last  to  the  wonderful 
Temple  of  Knowledge.  I  have  been  journeying 
hither  all  my  life.  Ah,  but  it  is  hard  work 
climbing  up  to  the  Ideals." 

The  old  man  touched  the  Traveller  on  the 
arm.  "  Listen,"  he  said  gently.  "This  is  not 
the  Temple  of  Knowledge.  And  the  Ideals  are 
not  a  chain  of  mountains  ;  they  are  a  stretch  of 
,plains,  and  the  Temple  of  Knowledge  i§  in  tbeir 


THE  TRA  VELLER  AND  THE  TEMPLE.  87 

centre.  You  have  come  the  wrong  road.  Alas, 
poor  Traveller ! " 

The  light  in  the  Traveller's  eyes  had  faded. 
The  hope  in  his  heart  died.  And  he  became 
old  and  withered.  He  leaned  heavily  on  his 
staff. 

"  Can  one  rest  here  \ "  he  asked  wearily., 

"  No." 

"  Is  there  a  way  down  the  other  side  of  these 
mountairfs  l " 

"  No." 

"  What  are  these  mountains  called  ?  '* 

"  They  have  no  name." 

"  And  the  temple  —  how  do  you  call  the 
temple  ? " 

"  It  has  no  name." 

"  Then  I  call  it  the  Temple  of  Broken 
Hearts,"  said  the  Traveller." 

And  he  "turned  and  went.  But_the  old 
white-haired  man  followed  him. 

"  Brother,"  he  said,  "you  are  not  the  first  to 
come  here,  but  you  may  be  the  last.  Go  back 
to  the  plains,  and  tell  the  dwellers  in  the  plains 
.that  the  Temple  of  True  Knowledge  Is  in  their 


38  SHIPS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

very  midst ;  any  one  may  enter  it  who  chooses  ; 
the  gate  is  not  even  closed,  -The  Temple  has 
always  been  in  the  plains,  m  the  very  heart  of 
life,  and  work,  and  daily  effort.  The  philosopher 
may  enter,  the  stone-breaker  may  enter.  You 
must  have  passed  it  every  day  of  your  life  ;  a 
plain,  venei'able  building,  unlike  your  glorious 
cathedrals." 

"  I  have  seen  the  children  playing  near  it," 
said  the  Traveller.  "  When  I  was  a  child  I 
used  to  play  there.  Ah,  if  I  had  only  known  ! 
Well,  the  past  is  the  past." 

He  -  would  have  rested  against  a  huge  stone, 
but  that  the  old  white-haired  man  prevented 
him. 

"  Do  not  rest,"  he  said.  "  If  you  once  rest 
there,  you  will  not  rise^  again.  When 'you  once 
rest,  you  will  know  how  weary  you  are." 

"  I  have  no  wish  to  go  farther,"  said  the 
Traveller.  "  My  journey  is  done ;  it  may 
have  been  in  the  wrong  direction,  but  still  it  is 
done." 

"Nay,  do  not  linger  here,"   urged  the  old 


THE  TRAVELLER  AND  THE  TEMPLE.  S9 

man.  "Eetrace  your  steps.  Though  you  are 
broken-hearted  yourself,  you  may  save  others 
from  breaking  their  hearts.  Those  whom  you 
meet  on  this  road,  you  can  turn  back.  Those 
who  are  but  starting  in  this  direction  you  can 
bid  pause  and  consider  how  mad  it  is  to  suppose 
that  the  Temple  of  True  Knowledge  should 
have  been  built  on  an  isolated  and  dangerous 
mountain.  Tell  them  that  although  God  seems 
hard,  He  is  not  as  hard  as  all  that.  Tell  them 
that  the  Ideals  are  not  a  mountain  range,  but 
their  own  plains,  where  their  great  cities  are 
built,  and  where  the  corn  gi'ows,  and  where  men 
and  women  are  toiling,  sometimes  in  sorrow 
and  sometimes  in  joy." 

"  I  will  go,"  said  tbe  Traveller. 

And  he  started. 

But  he  had  grown  old  and  weary.  And  the 
journey  was  long ;  and  the  retracing  of  one's 
steps  is  more  toilsome  than  the  tracing  of  them. 
The  ascent,  v/ith  all  the  vigour  and  hope  of  life 
to  help  him,  had  been  difficult  enough ;  the 
descent,  with  no  vigour  and  no  hope  to  help 
him,  was  almost  impossible. 


40  SfflFS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT 

So  that  it  was  not  probable  that  the  TraveHer 
lived  to  reach  the  plains.  But  whether  he. 
reached  them  or  not,  still  he  had  started 

And  not  many  Travellers  do  that. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

BERNAEDINE. 

The  crisp  mountain  air  and  the  warm  sunshine 
began  slowly  to  have  their  effect  on  Bernardine, 
in  spite  of  the  Disagreeable  Man's  verdict.  She 
still  looked  singularly  lifeless,  and  appeared 
to  drag  herself  about  with  painful  effort ;  but 
the  place  suited  her,  and  she  enjoyed  sitting  in 
the  sun  listening  to  the  music  which  was  played 
by  a  scratchy  string  band.  Some  of  the  Kur- 
haus  guests,  seeing  that  she  was  alone  and 
ailing,  made  some  attempts  to  be  kindly  to  her. 
She  always  seemed  astonished  that  people 
should  concern  themselves  about  her;  whatever 
her  faults  were,  it  never  struck  her  that  she 
might  be  of  any  impoitance  to  others,  however 


43  SHIPS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

important  slie  miglit  be  to  herself.  She  was 
grateful  for  any  little  kindness  which  was 
shewn  her ;  but  at  first  she  kept  very  much 
to  herself,  talking  chiefly  with  the  Disagreeable 
Man,  who,  by  the  way,  had  surprised  every  one 
— but  no  one  more  than  himself — by  his  un- 
wonted behaviour  in  bestowing  even  a  fraction 
of  his  companionship  on  a  Petershof  human 
being. 

There  was  a  great  deal  of  curiosity  about 
her,  but  no  one  ventured  to  question  her  since 
Mrs.  Reflfold's  defeat.  Mrs.  Reffold  herself 
rather  avoided  her,  having  always  a  vague 
suspicion  that  Bernardino  tried  to  make  fun 
of  her.  But  whether  out  of  perversity  or  not, 
Bernardino  never  would  be  avoided  by  her, 
never  let  her  pass  by  without  a  few  v,^ords  of 
conversation,  and  always  went  to  her  for  infor- 
mation, much  to  the  amusement  of  Mrs.  Eeffold's 
faithful  attendants.  There  was  always  a 
twinkle  in  Bernardino's  eye  when  she  spoke 
with  Mrs,  Beffold.  She  never  fastened  herself 
on  to  any  one ;  no  one  could  say  she  intruded. 
As  time  went,  on  there  was  a  vague  sort  of 


BERNARDINE.  43 

feeling  that  she  did  not  intrude  enough..?  She 
was  ready  to  speak  if  any  one  cai'ed  to  speak 
with  her,  but  she  never  began  a  conversation 
except  with  Mrs,  Keffold.  When  people  did 
.talk  to  hei',  they  found  her  genial.  Then  the 
Bad  face  would  smile  kindly,  and  the  sad  eyes 
speak  kind  sympathy.  Or  some  bit  of  fun 
would  flash  forth,  and  a  peal  of  young  laughter 
I'ing  out.  It  seemed  strange  that  such  fun 
could  come  from  her. 

Those  who  noticed  her,  said  she  appeared 
always  to  be  thinkingi 

She  was  thinking  and  learning. 

Some  few  remarks  roughly  made  by  the 
Disagreeable  Man  had  impressed  her  deeply. 

"  You  'have  come  to  a  new  world,"  he  said. 
'-*  the  world  of  suffering.  You  are  in  a  fury 
because  your  career  has  been  checked,  and 
because  you  have  been  put  on  the  shelf;  you,  of 
all  people.  Now  you  will  learn  how  many  quite 
as  able  as  yourself,  and  abler,  have  been  put  on 
the  shelf  too,  and  have  to  stay  there.  You  are 
only  a  pupil  in  suffering.  What  about  the 
professors  ?     If  your  wonderful  wisdom  has  lefife 


44  SHIPS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NICHT. 

you  with  any  sense  at  all,  look  about  you  and 
learn." 

So  she  was  looking,  and  thinking,  and  learn- 
ing. And  as  the  days  went  by,  perhaps,  a. 
softer  light  came  into  her  eyes. 

All  her  life  long,  her  standard  of  judging 
people  had  been  an  intellectual  standard,  or  an 
artistic  standard :  what  people  had  done  with 
outward  and  visible  signs ;  how  far  they  had 
contributed  to  thought ;  how  far  they  ,  had 
influenced  any  great  movement,  or  originated 
it ;  how  much  of  a  benefit  they  had  been  to 
their  century  or  their  country ;  how  much  social 
or  political  activity,  how  much  educational 
energy  they  had  devoted  to  the  pi'essing  need 
of  the  times 

She  was  undoubtedly  a  clever,  cultured 
young  woman  ;  the  great  work  of  her  life  had 
been  self-cultui-e.  To  know  and  understand,  she 
had  spai'ed  neither  herself  nor  any  one  else. 
To  know,  and  to  use  her  acquired  knowledge 
intellectually  as  teacher  and,  perhaps,  too,  as 
writer,  had  been  the  great  aim  of  her  -life. 
Everything  that  furthered  this  aim  won   her 


8ERNARDINE.  45 

instant  attention.  It  never  struck  her  that  she 
was  selfish.  One  does  not  think  of  that  until 
the  great  check  comes.  One  goes  on,  and 
would  go  on.  But  a  barrier  rises  up.  Then, 
finding  one  can  advance  no  further,  one  turns 
round ;  and  what  does  one  see  ? 

Bernardine  saw  that  she  had  come  a  long 
journey.  She  saw  what  the  Traveller  saw. 
That  was  all  she  saw  at  first.  Then  she 
remembered  that  she  had  done,  the  journey 
entirely  for  her  own  sake.  Perhaps  it  might 
not  have  looked  so  dreary  if  it  had  been  under- 
taken for  some  one  else. 

She  had  claimed  nothing  of  any  one  ;  she  had 
given  nothing  to  any  one.  She  had  simply 
taken  her  life  in  her  own  hands  and  made  what 
she  could  of  it.     What  had  she  made  of  it  ? 

Many  women  asked  for  riches,  for  position, 
for  influence  and  authority  and  admiration. 
She  had  only  asked  to  be  able  to  work.  It 
seemed  little  eno.ugh  to  ask.  Ihat  she  asked 
so  little  placed  her,  so  she  thought,  apart 
from  the  common  herd  of  eager  askers.  To 
be  cut  off  from  active  life  and  earnest   work 


46  SHIPS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

was  a  possibility  which  never  occurred  to 
her. 

It  never  crossed  her  mind  that  in  asking  for 
the  one  thing  for  which  she  longed,  she  was 
really  asking  for  the  greatest  thing.  Now,  in 
the  hour  of  her  enfeeblement,  and  in  the  hour 
of  the  bitterness  of  her  heart,  she  still  prided 
herself  upon  wanting  so  little, 

"  It  seems  so  little  to  ask,"  she  cried  to  herr 
self  time  after  time.  "  I  only  want  to  be  able  to 
do  a  few  strokes  of  work.  I  would  be  content  now 
to  do  so  little,  if  only  I  might  do  some.  The 
laziest  day-labourer  on  the  road  would  laugh  at 
the  small  amount  of  work  which  would  content 
me  now." 

She  told  the  Disagreeable  Man  that  one  day. 

"  So  you  think  you  are  moderate  in  your 
demands,"  he  said  to  her.  "  You  are  a  most 
amusing  young  woman.  You  are  so  perfectly 
unconscious  how  exacting  you  really  are.  For. 
after  all,  what  is  it  you  want?  You  want' to 
have  that  wonderful  brain  of  youi-s  restored,  so 
that  you  may  begin  to  teach,  and,  perhaps, 
write  a   book.      Well,   to   repeat   my  former 


BERNARDINE.  47 

words  :  you  ave  still  at  phase  one,  and  you  are 
lon<rinof  to  be  stronof  enouofh  to  fulfil  your 
ambitions  and  write  a  book.  When  j'-ou  arrive 
at  phase  four,  you  will  be  quite  content  to  dust 
one  of  your  uncle's  books  instead  :  far  more 
useful  work  and  far  more  worthy  of  encourage- 
ment. If  every  one  who  wrote  books  now 
would  be  satisfied  to  dust  books  already  written, 
what  a  regenerated  world  it  would  become  !  " 

She  laughed  good-temperedly.  His  remarks 
did  not  vex  her ;  or,  at  least,  she  showed  no 
vexation.  He  seemed  to  have  constituted  him- 
self as  her  critic,  and  she  made  no  objections. 
She  had  given  him  little  bits  of  stray  confidence 
about  herself,  and  she  'received  everything  he 
had  to  say  with  that  kind  of  forbearance  which 
chivalry  bids  us  show  to  the  weak  and  ailing. 
She  made  allowances  for  him  ;  but  she  did  more 
than  that  for  him  :  sjie  did  not  let  him  see  that 
she  made  allowances.  Moreover,  she  recognized 
amidst  all  his  roughness  a  certain  kind  of  sym- 
pathy which  she  could  not  resent,  because  it 
was  not  aggressive.  For  to  some  natures  the 
expression  of  sympathy  is  an  irritation ;  to  ba 


4S    .  SHIPS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

sympathized  with  means  to  be  pitied,  and  to  be 
pitied  means  to  be  looked  down  upon.  She 
was  sorry  for  him,  but  she  would  not  have  told 
him  so  for  worlds ;  he  would  have  shrunk  from 
pity  as  much  as  she  did.  And  yet  the  sym- 
pathy which  she  thouf^ht  she  did  not  want  for 
herself,  she  was  silently  giving  to  those  around 
her,  like  herself,  thwarted,  each  in  a  diffei'ent 
way  perhaps,  still  thwarted  all  the  same. 

She  found  mor-e  than  once  that  she  was 
learning  to  measure  people  by  a  standard  dif- 
ferent from  her  former  one ;  not  by  what 
they  had  done  or  heen,  but  by  what  they  had 
suffered.  But  such  a  change  as  this  does  not 
come  suddenly,  though,  in  a  place  like  Petershof, 
it  comes  quickly,  almost  unconsciously. 

She  became  immensely  interested  in  some  of 
the  guests ;  and  there  were  curious  types  in  the 
Kurhaus.  The  foreigners  attracted  her  chiefly  , 
a  little  Parisian  danseuse,  none  too  c^uiet  in  her 
manner,  won  Bernardino's  fancy. 

"  I  so  want  to  get  better,  cMrie,"  she  said  to 
Bernardino.  /'Life  is  so  bright  Death:'  ah. 
how  the  very  thought  makes  one  shiver !'    That 


BERNARDINE.  49 

torrid 'doctor  says  I  must  not  skate  ;  it  Is  not 
wise.  When  was  I  wise  ?  Wise  people  don't 
enjoy  themselves.  And  I  have  enjoyed  myself, 
and.  will  still." 

"  How  can  you  go  about  with  that  little 
danseuse?"  the  Disagreeable  Man  said. to  Ber- 
nardino one  day.     "  Do  you  know  who  she  is  %  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Bernardino  ;  "  &ne  is  the  lady 
who  thinks  you  must  be  a  very  ill-bred  person 
because  you  stalk  into  meals,  with  your  hands 
in  your  pockets.  She  wondered  how  I  could 
bring  myself  to  speak  to  you." 

"  I  dare  say  many  people  wonder  at  that," 
said  Robert  Allitsen  rather  peevishly. 

"  Oh  no,"  replied  Bernardino  ;  "  they  wonder 
that  you  talk  to  me.  They  think  I  must  either 
be  ver}'  clever  or  else  very  disagreeable." 

"  I  should  not  call  you  clever,"  said  Robert 
Allitsen  grimly. 

"No,"  answered  Bernardino  pensively.  "But 
I  always  did  think  myself  clever  until  I  came 
Hera  Now  I  am  beginninof  to  know  better. 
But  it  is  rather  a  shock,  isn't  it  ? " 

•'  1  have  never  experienced  the  shock,"  he  said. 


60  SHIPS  THAT  PASS  IN  TEE  NIGHT. 

"  Then,  you  still  think  you  are  clever  \  "  she 
asked. 

"  There  is  only  one  man  my  Intellectual  equal 
in  Petersliof,  and  he  is  not  here  any  more,"  he 
said  gravely.  "  Noav  I  come  to  remember,  he 
died.  That  is  the  worst  of  making  friendships 
here ;  people  die." 

"  Still,  it  is  something  to  be  left  king  of  the 
intellectual  world,"  said  Bernardine.  "  I  never 
thought  of  you  in  that  light." 

There  was  a  sly  smile  about  her  lips  as  she 
spoke,  and  there  was  the  ghost  of  a  smile  on 
the  Disagreeable  Man's  face. 

"  Why  do  you  talk  with  that  torrid  Swede  ?  " 
he  said  suddenly.  "  He  is  a  wretched  low 
foreigner.  Have  you  heard  son.\e  of  hia 
views  5 

•'  Some  of  them,"  answered  Bernardine  cheer- 
fully. "  One  of  his  views  is  really  amusing : 
that  it  is  very  rude  of  you  to  read  the  news- 
paper during  meal-time  ;  and  he  asks  if  it  is  an 
Enolish  custom.  I  tell  him  it  depends  entirely 
on  the  Englishman,  and  the  Englishman's 
neighbour ! " 


BERNARDINE.  5» 

So  she  too  had  her  raps  at  him,  but  always  in 
the  kindest  way. 

He  had  a  curious  effect  on  her.  His  very 
bitterness  seemed  to  check  in  its  growth  her 
own  bitterness.  The  cup  of  poison  of  which  he 
himself  had  drunk  deep,  he  passed  on  to  her. 
She  drank  of  it,  and  it  did  not  poison  her.  She 
was  morbid,  and  she  needed  cheerful  companion- 
ship. His  dismal  companionship  and  his  hard 
way  of  looking  at  life  ought  by  rights  to  have 
oppressed  her.  Instead  of  which  she  became 
less  sorrowful. 

Was  the  Disagreeable  Man,  perhaps,  a  reader 
of  character  ?  Did  he  know  how  to  help  her  in 
his  own  grim  gruff  way  ?  He  himself  had 
Buffered  so  much ;  perhaps  he  did  know. 


CHAPTER.  yilL 

THE  STORY  MOVES  ON  AT.  LAST. 

Bernardine  was  playing  chess  one  day  wltli 
the  Swedish  Professor.  On  the  Kurhaus 
terrace  the  guests  were  sunning  themselves, 
iWarmly  wrapped  up  to  protect  themselves  from 
the  "cold,  and  well-provided  with  parasols  to 
protect  themselves  from  the  glare.  Some'  were 
reading,  some  were  playmg  cards  or  Russian 
dominoes,  and  others  were  doing  nothing.  There 
was  a  good  deal  of  fun,  and  a  great  deal  of 
screaming  amongst  the  Portuguese  colony.  The 
little  danseuse  and  three  gentlemen  acquain- 
tances were  drinking  coffee,  and  not  behaving 
too  quietly.  Pretty  Fraulein  Muller  waa 
leaning  over  her  balcony  carrying  on  a  conver- 


THE  STORY  MOVES  ON  AT   LAST.  53 

sation  with  a  picturesque  Spanish  youth  below 
Most  of  the  English  party  had  gone  sledging 
and  tobogganing.  Mrs.  RefFold  had  asked 
Bernardine  to  join  them,  but  she  had  refused. 
Mrs.  ReiTold's  friends  were  anything  but 
attractive  to  Bernardine,  although  she  liked 
Mrs.  Reffold  herself  immensely.  There  was  no 
special  reason  why  she  should  like  her  :  she 
certainly  had  no  cause  to  o.dmire  her  every-day 
behaviour,  nor  her  neglect  of  her  invalid 
husband,  who  was  passing  away,  uncared  for  in 
the  present,  and  not  likely  to  be  mourned  for  in 
the  future.  Mrs.  Pweffold  was  gay,  careless,  and 
beautiful.  She.  understood  nothing  about 
nursing,  and  cared  less.  So  a  trained  nurse 
looked  after  Mr.  Eeffold,  and  Mrs.  Reffold  went 
sledging. 

"Dear  Wilfrid  is  so  unselfish;"  she  said. 
"  He  will  not  have  me  stay  at  home.  But  I 
feel  very  selfish."  That  was  her  stock  remark. 
Most  people  answered  her  by  saying  :  "  Oh  no, 
Mrs.  Reffold,  don't  say  that."  But  when  she 
made  the  remark  to  Bernardine,  and  expected 
the  usual  reply,  Bernardine  said  instead  ; 


51  SHIPS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT, 

"  Mr.  Eeffold  seems  lonely." 

"Oh,  he  has  a  trained  nurse,  and  she  can 
read  to  him,"  said  j\Irs.  Tteffold  hurriedly.  She 
seemed  rufflea. 

"  I  had  a  trained  nurse  once,"  replied  Ber- 
nardine ;  "  and  she  could  read  ;  but  she  would 
not.     She  said  it  hurt  her  throat." 

"  Dear  me,  how  very  unfortunate  for  you," 
said  Mrs.  Eeffold.  "  Ah,  there  is  Captain 
Graham  calling.  .1  must  not  keep  the  sledges 
waiting." 

That  was  a  few  days  ago,  hut  to-day,  when 
Bernardino  was  playing  chess  with  the  Swedish 
Professor,  Mrs.  Reffold  came  to  her.  There 
was  a  curious  mixture  of  shyness  and  abandon 
in  Mrs.  Beffold's  manner. 

*'  Miss  Hohne,"  she  said,  "  I  have  thought 
of  such  a  splendid  idea.  Will  you  go  and  see 
Mr.  Eeffold  this  afternoon  ?  That  would  be  a 
nice  little  change  for  him." 

Bernardino  smiled. 

"  If  you  wish  it,"  she  answered. 

Mrs.  Eeffold  nodded  and  hastened  away,  and 


THE  S TOR Y  MO VES  ON  AT  LAST.  65 

Berrardine   continued  her  game,  and,  having 
finished  it,  rose  to  go. 

The  Keffolds  were  rich,  and  lived  in  a  suite 
of  apartments  in  the  more  kixurious  part  of  the 
Kurhaus.  Bernardine  knocked  at  the  door,  and 
the  nurse  came  to  open  it. 

"  Mrs.  RefFold  asks  me  to  visit  Mr.  Reffold," 
Bernardine  said ;  and  tlie  nurse  showed  her 
into  the  pleasant  sitting-room. 

Mr.  Beffold  was  lying  on  the  sofa.  He  looked 
up  as  Bernardine  came  in,  and  a  smile  of 
pleasure  spread  over  his  wan  face'. 

"  I  don't  knoAv  whether  I  intrude,"  said  Ber- 
nardine ;  "  but  Mrs.  Beffold  said  I  might  come 
to  see  you." 

Mr.  Reffold  signed  to  the  nurse  to  withdraw. 

She  had  never  before  spoken  to  him.  She 
had  often  -seen  him  lying  by  himself  in  the 
sunshine. 

"  Are  you  paid  for  coming  to  me  ? "  he  asked 
eagerly. 

The  words  seemed  rude  enough,  but  there 
was  no  mdeness  in  the  manner. 


56  sii/rs  n/.i  T  PASS  in  the  night. 

"  No,  I  am  not  paid,"  she  said  gently ;  and 
then  she  took  a  chair  and  sat  near  him. 

"  Ah,  that's  well ! "  he  said,  with  a  sigh  'of 
relief.  "  I'm  so  tired  of  paid  service.  To 
know  that  things  are  done  for  mo  because  a 
certain  amomit  of  francs  are  given  so  that 
those  things  may  be  done — avcII,  one  gets 
weary  of  it ;  that's  all  ! " 

There  was  bitterness  in  every  word  he  spoke. 
"  I  lie  here,"  he  said,  "  and  the  loivjliness  of 
it — the  loneliness  of  it ! " 

"  Shall  I  read  to  you  ? "  she  asked  kindly. 
She  did  not  know  what  to  say  to  him. 

"  I  want  to  talk  first,"  he  replied.  "  I  want 
to  talk  first  to  some  one  who  is  not  paid  for 
talking  to  me.  I  have  often  watched  you,  and 
wondered  who  you  were.  Why  do  you  look  so 
sad  ?     No  one  is  waiting  for  you  to  die  ?  " 

•'*  Don't  talk  like  that  !  "  she  said  ;  and  she 
bent  over  him  and  arranged  the  cushions  for 
him  more  comfortably  He  looked  just  like  a 
great  lank  tired  child. 

"  Ate  you  one  of  my  wife's  friends  1 "  he 
asked 


THE  STOR y  MO VES  ON  AT  LAST.  VI 

"  I  don't  suppose  I  am,"  she  answered  gently  ; 
"but  I  like  her,  all  the  same.  Indeed,  I  like  her 
very  much.     And  I  think  her  beautiful." 

"  Ah,  she  is  beautiful ! "  he  said  eagerly. 
"  Doesn't  she  look  splendid  in  her  furs  ?  By 
Jove,  you  are  right  I  She  is  a  beautiful  woman. 
I  am  proud  of  her." 

Then  the  smile  faded  from  his  face. 

"Beautiful,"  he  said  half  to  himself,  "but 
hard." 

*'  Come  now,"  said  Bernardino  ;  "  you  are 
surrounded  with  books  and  newspapers.  What 
shall  I  read  to  you  ?  " 

"  No  one  reads  w.hat  I  want,"  he  answered 
peevishly.  "  My  tastes  are  not  their  tastes.  I 
don't  suppose  you  would  care  to  read  what  I 
want  to  hear." 

"  Well,"  she  said  cheerily,  "try^me.  Make 
your  choice." 

"  Very  well,  the  Sporting  and  Draimitic," 
he  said.  "  Bead  every  word  of  that.  And 
about  that  theatrical  divorce  case.  And  every 
word  of  that  too.  Don't  you  skip,  and  cheat 
me." 


fi9  SHIPS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

She  laughed  and  settled  herself  down  to 
amuse  him.     And  he  listened  contentedly. 

"  That  is  something  like  literature,"  he  said 
once  or  twice.  "  I  can  understand  papers  of 
that  sort  going  like  \vild-fire." 

When  he  was  tired  of  being  read  to,  she 
talked  to  him  in  a  manner  that  would  have 
astonished  the  Disagreeable  Man  :  not  of  books, 
nor  learning,  but  of  people  she  had  met  and  of 
places  she  had  seen  ;  and  there  was  fun  in  every- 
thing she  said.  She  knew  London  well,  and 
she  could  tell  him.  about  the  Jewish  and  the 
Chinese  quarters,  and  about  her  adventures  in 
company  with  a  man  who  took  her  here,  there, 
and  everywhere. 

She  made  him  some  tea,  and  she  cheered  the 
poor  fellow  as  he  had  not  been  cheered  for 
months. 

*'  You're  just  a  little  brick  ! "  he  said,  when 
she  was  leaving.  Then  once  more  he  added 
eagerly : 

"  And  you're  not  to  be  paid,  are  you  ? " 

"  Not  a  sino-le  sou ! "  she  laughed.  "  What 
a  strano^e  idea  of  yours  ! " 


THE  STOR Y  MOVES  ON  AT  LAST.  59 

"  You  are  not  offended  ?  "  he  said  anxiously 
"But  you  can't  think  what  a  difference  it  makes 
cO  me.     You  are  not  offended  ?  " 

"  Not  in  the  least !  "  she  answered.  "  I  know 
quite  well  how  you  mean  it.  You  want  a  little- 
kindness  with  nothing  at  the  back  of  it.  Now, 
good-bye !  " 

He  called  her  when  she  was  outside  the  door. 

"  I  say,  will  you  come  again  soon  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  will  come  to-morrow." 

*'  Do  you  know  you've  been  a  little  brick.  I 
hope  I  haven't  tired  you.  You  are  only  a  bit 
of  a  thing  yourself  But,  by  Jove,  you  know 
how  to  put  a  fellow  in  a  good  temper^ ' " 

When  Mrs.  Reffold  went  down  to  lahle-dlwte 
that  night,  she  met  Bernardine  on  the  stau's, 
and  stopped  to  speak  v/ith  her. 

"  We've  had  a  splendid  afternoon,"  she  said  ; 
"and  we've  arranged  to  go  agam  to-morrow  at 
the  same  time.  Such  a  pity  you  don't  come  ! 
Oh,  by  the  way,  thank  you  for  going  to  see  ray 
husband.  I  hope  he  did  not  tire  you.  He  is  a 
little  querulous,  I  thuik.  He  so  enjoyed  your 
visit.  Poor  fellow  !  it  is  sad  to  see  him  so  ill, 
xmt  it  ? " 


CHAPTER  IX. 

BERNAHDINE  PEEACHEa 

After  this,  scarcely  a  day  passed  but  .  Ber- 
nardino went  to  see  Mr.  Reffold.  The  most 
inexperienced  eye  could  have  known  that  he 
was  becoming  rapidly  worse.  Marie,  the 
chambermaid,  knew  it,  and  spoke  of  it  fre^ 
^quently  to  Bernardine. 

"The  poor  lonely  fellow  I"  she  said,  time 
after  time. 

Every  one,  except  Mrs.  Reffold,  seemed 
to  recognize  that  Mr.  Reffold's  days  were 
numbered.  Either  she  did  not  or  would  not 
understand.  She  made  no  alteration  in  the 
disposal  of  her  time :  sledging  parties  and 
skating  picnics  were  the  order  of  the  day  ;  she 


BERNARDINE  PREACHES.  61 

was  thoroughly  pleased  with  herself,  and 
received  the  attentions  of  her  admirers  as  a 
matter  of  course.  The  Petershof  climate  had 
got  into  her  head ;  and  it  is  a  well-known  fact 
that  this  glorious  air  has  the  -eOect  on  some 
people  of  banishing  from  their  minds  all  incon- 
venient notions  of  duty  and  devotion ,  and  all 
memory  of  the  special  object  of  their  sojourn 
in  Petershof.  The  coolness  and  calmness  with 
which  such  people  ignore  their  responsibilities, 
X)r  allow  strangers  to  assume  them,  would  be  an 
occasion  for  humour,  if  it  were  not  an  oppor- 
tunity for  indignation :  though  indeed  it 
would  take  a  very  exceptionally  sober-minded 
spectator  not  to  get  some  fun  out  of  the  bliss- 
ful self-satisfaction  and  unconsciousness  which 
characterize  the  most  negligent  of  care- 
takers. 

Mrs.  Reifold  was  not  the  only  sinner  in  this 
respect.  It  would  have  been  interesting  to  get 
together  a  tea-party  of  invalids  alone,  and  set 
the  ball  rolling  about  the  respective  behaviours 
of  their  respective  friends.  Not  a  pleasing 
chronicle  :  no  very  choice  pages  to  add  to  the 


62  SHIPS  THAT  PASS  W  THE  NIGHT. 

book  of  real  life ;  still,  valuable  items  in  their 
way,  representative  of  the  actual  as  opposed  to 
the  ideal.  In  most  instances  there  woidd  have 
been  ample  testimony  to  that  cruel  monster 
km)wn  as  Neglect. 

Bernardine  spoke  once  to  the  Disagreeable 
Man  on  this  subiect.  She  spoke  with  indig- 
nation, and  he  answered  with  nidifference, 
shrugging  his  shoulders. 

"  These  things  occur,"  he  said.  "  It  is  not 
that  they  are  worse  here  than  everywhere  else  ;  • 
it  is  simply  that  they  are  together  in  an 
accumulated  mass,  and,  as  such,  strike  us  with 
tremendous  force.  I  myself  am  accustomed  to 
these  exhibitions  of  selfishness  and  neglect. 
I  should  be  astonished  if  they  did  not  take 
place.  Don't  mix  yourself  up  with  anything. 
If  people  are  neglected,  they  are  neglected,  and 
there  is  the  end  of  it.  To  imagine  that  you  or 
I  are  going  to  do  any  good  by  filling  up  the 
breach,  is  simply  an  insanity  leading  to  unnecess- 
arily disagreeable  consequences.  I  know  you 
go  to  see  Mr.  Reffold.  Take  my  advice,  and 
keep  away.' 


BEKNARDINE  PREACHES.  63 

"  Yon 'speak  like  a  Calvlnist,"  she  answered, 
ratliei'  rufiled,  "  with  the  quintessence  of  self- 
protectiveness ;  and  I  don't  beheve  you  mean  a 
word  you  say." 

"  My  dear  young  woman,"  he  said,  "  we  are' 
not  living  in  a  poetry  book  bound  with  gilt 
edges.  We  are  living  in  a  paper-backed  volume 
of  prose.  Be  sensible.  Don't  ruffle  yourself 
on  account  of  other  people.  Don't  even  trouble 
to  criticize  them ;  it  is  only  a  nuisance  to  your- 
self. All  this  simply  points  back  to  my  first 
suggestion  :  fill  up  your  time  with  some  hobby,' 
cheese-mites  or  the  influenza  bacillus,  and  then' 
you  will  be  quite  content  to  let  people  be 
neglected,  lonely,  and  to  die.  You  will  look 
upon  it  as  an  ordinary  and  natural  process," 

She  waved  her  hand  as  though  to  stop  him. 

"  There  are  days,"  she  said,  "  when  I  can't 
bear  to  talk  with  you.  And  this  is  one  of 
them/' 

"  I  am  sorry,"  he  answei'ed,  quite  gently  for 
him.  And  he  moved  away  from  her,  and  started 
for  his  usual  lonely  walk. 

Bernardino  turned  home,  intending  to  go  tO) 


64  SHIPS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT, 

see  Mr,  RefFold,  He  had  become  quite  attached 
to  her,  and  looked  forward  eagerly  to  her  visits. 
He  said  her  voice  was  gentle  and  her  manner 
quiet ;  there  was  no  bustling  vitality  about  her 
to  irritate  his  worn  nerves.  He  was  probably 
an  empty-headed,  stupid  fellow ;  but  it  wa§ 
none  the  less  sad  to  see  him  passing  away. 

He  called  her  '  Little  Brick.'  He  said  that 
no  other  epithet  suited  her  so  exactly.  He  was 
quite  satisfied  now  that  she  was  not  paid  for 
coming  to  see  him.  As  for  the  reading,  no  one 
could  read  the  Sporting  and  Dramatic  News 
and  the  Era  so  well  as  Little  Brick.  Some- 
times he  spoke  with  her  about  his  wife,  but 
only  in  general  torms  of  bitterness,  and  not 
always  complaininglyrf^She.  listened  and  said 
nothing. 

"  I'm  a  chap  that  wants'Iyery  little,"  he  said 
once.  •   **  Those  who  want  little,  get  nothing." 

That  was  all  he  said,  but  Bernardino  knew 
to  "whom  he  referred. 

To-day,  as  Bernardino  was  on  her  way  back 
to  the  Kurhaus,  she  was  thinking  constantly  of 
Mrs.  Refibld,  and  wondering  whether  she  ought 


BERNARDINE  PREACHES.  65 

ta  be  made  to  realize  that  her  husband  was 
becoming  rapidly  worseT  Whilst  engrossed  with 
this  thought,  a  long  train  of  sledges  and 
toboggans  passed  her.  The  sound  of  the  bells 
and  the  noisy  merriment  made  her  look  up,  and 
she  saw  beautiful  Mrs.  Reffold  amongst  tho 
pleasure-seekers. 

"  If  only  I  dared  tell  her  now,"  said  Bernar- 
dine  to  herself,  "  loudly  and  before  them  all." 

Then  a  more  sensible  mood  came  ot^er 
her. 

"  After  all,  it  is  not  my  affair,"  she  said. 

And  the  si  fudges  passed  away  out  of 
hearing. 

When  Bernardine  sat  with  Mr.  Ileftbld  that 
afternoon  she  did  not  mention  that  she  had  seen 
his  wife.  He  coughed  a  great  deal,  and  seemed 
to  be  worse  than  ,  usual,  and  complained  of 
fever.  But  he  liked  to  have  her,  and  would 
not  hear  of  her  going. 

"  Stay,"  he  said.  "  It  is  not  much  of  a 
pleasure  to  you,  but  it  is  a  great  pleasure  to 
me." 

There    was    an    anxious    look    on    his    far?, 

F 


66  SHIPS  THA  T  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

such  a  look  as  people  wea'r  when  they  wish  to 
ask  some  question  of  great^  moment,  but  dare 
not  begin. 

At  last  he  seemed  to  summon  up  courage. 

"  Little  Brick,"  he  said,  in  a  weak,  low 
voice,  "  I  liave  something  on  my  mind.  You 
won't  laugh,  I  know.  You're  not  the  sort.  I 
know  you're  clever  and  thoughtful,  and  all  that  \ 
you  could  tell  me  more  than  all  the  parsons 
put  together.  I  know  you're  clever  ;  my  'wife 
says  so.  She  says  only  a  very  clever  woman 
would  wear  such  boots  and  hats." 

Bernardine  smiled. 

"  Well,"  she  said  kindly,  "  tell  me." 

"  You  must  have  thought  a  good  deal,  I 
suppose,"  he  continued,  "  about  life  and  death, 
and  that  sort  of  thing.  I've  never  thought  at 
all.  Does  it  matter.  Little  Brick  ?  It's  too 
late  now,  I  can't  begin  to  think.  But  speak  to 
me  ;  tell  me  what  you  think.  Do  you  believe 
we  get  another  chance,  and  are  glad  to  behave 
less  like  curs  and  brutes  ?  Or  is  it  all  ended  in 
thr^t  lonely  little  churchyard  here  ?  I've  never 
troubled   about   these   things  before,   but  now 


BEKA'ARDhXE  PREACHES.  67 

1  know  I  am  so  near  that  gloomy  little 
churchyard — well,  it  makes  me  wonder.  As 
for  the  Bible,  I  never  cared  to  read  it.  I  was 
never  much  of  a  reader,  though  I've  got  through 
two  or  three  firework  novels  and  sporting 
stories.     Does  it  matter,  Little  Brick  %  " 

"  How  do  I  know  ?  "  she  said  gently     "  How 

does  any  one  know  ?     People  say  they  know  ; 

but  it  is  all  a  great  mystery — nothing  but  a 

mystery.   Everything  that  we  say,  c^n  be  but  a 

guess.      People    have    gone    mad    over    their 

guessing,    or   they  have  broken  their    hearts* 

But  still  the  mystery  remains,  and  we  cannot 

solve  it. 

1       "  If  you  don't  know  anything,  Little  Brick,' 

j  he  said,  "  at  leist  tell  me  what  you  think :  and 

I  don't   be  too  1  earned ;   remember  I'm  only  U 

\  brainless  fellow  " 

1       He  seemed  to   be   waiting   eagerly   for  her 
answer. 

"If  I  were  you,"  she  said,  "I  should  not 
worry  Just  make  up  your  mmd  to  do  better 
v.iien  you  get  another  chance.  One  can't 
do  u5ore  than  that.     That  is  what  I  shall  think 

F  2 


68  S///PS  Til  A  T  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

of:  tliat  God  will  give  eacli  one  of  us  anotlier 
chance,  .and  that  each  one  of  us  will  take  it  and 
do  better — I  and  you  and  every  one.  So  there 
is  no  need  to  fret  over  failure,  when  one 
hopes  one  may  be  allowed '  to  redeem  that 
failure  later  on.  Besides  which,  life  is  very 
hard.  Why,  we  ourselves  recognize  that.  If 
there  be  a  God,  some  Intelligence  greater  than 
human  intelligence,  he  will  understand  better 
than  ourselves  that  life  is  very  hard  and  difhcult, 
and  he  will  be  astonished  not  because  ire  are 
not  better,  but  because  we  are  not  worse.  At 
least,  that  would  be  my  notion  of  a  God.  I 
should  not  worry,  if  I  were  you.  Just  make  up 
your  mind  to  do  better  if  you  get  the  chance, 
and  be  content  with  that." 

If  that  is  what  you  think;  Little  Brick,"  he 
answered,  "  it  is  quite  good  enough  for  me 
And  it  does  not  matter  about!  prayers  and  the 
Bible,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing '^" 

"/  don't  think  it  matters,"  she  said.  "I 
never  have  thought  such  things  mattered. 
"What  does  matter,  is  to  judge  gently,  and  not 
to  come  down  like  a  sledire-hanuucr  on  other 


BERNARDINE  PREACH£S:  60 

people's  failings.  Who  are  we,  any  of  as,  that 
we  should  be  hard  on  ol  hers  ?  " 

"  And  not  come  down  like  a  sledofe- hammer 
on  other  people's  failings,"  he  repeated  slowly.' 
"  I  wonder  if  I  have  ever  judged  gently." 

"  I  believe  you  have,"  she  answered. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  No,"  he  said  ;  "  I  have  been  a  paltry  fellow'.- 
I  have  been  lying  here,  and  elsewhere  too, 
eating  my  heart  away  with  bitterness,  until  you 
came.^  Since  then  I  have  sometimes  forgotten 
to  feel  bitter.  A  little  kindness  does  away  with 
a  great  deal  of  bitterness." 

He  turned  wearily  on  his  side. 

"  I  think  I  could  sleep,  Little  Brick,"  he  said, 
almost  in  a  whisper.  "  I  want  to  dream  about 
your  sennon.^^  And  I'm  not  to  worry,  am  I  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  answered,  as  she  stepped  noise- 
lessly across  the  room ;  "  you  are  not  to  woriy." 


CHAPTER  X., 

THE  ;^  DISAGREEABLE     MAN     IS     SEEN     IN 
A     NEW     LIGHT. 

One  specially  fine  morning  a  knock  came  at 
Bernardine's  door.  She  opened  it,  and  found 
Robert  Allitsen  standing  there,  trying  to  recover 
his  breath, 

"  I  am  going  to  Loschwitz,  a  village  about 
twelve  miles  off,"  he  said.  "And  I  have  ordered 
a  sledge.     Do  you  care  to  come  too  ?  " 

"  If  I  may  pay  my  share,"  she  said. 

"  Of  course,"  he  answered ;  "  I  did  not 
suppose  you  would  like  to  be  paid  for  any  better 
than  I  should  like  to  pay  for  you." 

Bernardine  laughed. 

"  When  do  we  start  ?  "  she  asked. 


THE  DISAGREEABLE  MAN  IN  ANEW  LIGHT.     7J 

/'  Now,"  he  answered:  ' ^  Bring  a  rug,'  and 
also  that  shawl  of  yours  which  is  always  falling 
down,  and  come  at  once  without  any  fuss.  We 
shall  be  out  for  the  whole  day.  What  about 
Mrs.  Grundy  ?  We  could  manage  to  take  her 
if  you  wished,  but  she  would  not  be  comfortable 
sitting  amongst  the  photographic  apparatus,  and 
I  certainly  should  not  give  up  my  seat  to  her." 

"  Then  leave  her  at  home,"  said  Bernardine 
cheerily. 

And  so  they  settled  it. 

In  less  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour  they  had 
started ;  and  Bernardine  leaned  luxuriously 
back  to  enjoy  to  the  full  her  first  sledge-drive. 

It  was  all  new  to  her  :  the  swift  passing 
through  the  crisp  air  without  any  sensation  of 
motion ;  the  sleepy  tinkling  of  the  bells  on  the 
horses'  heads :  the  noiseless  cutting  through  of 
the  snov/-path. 

All  these  weeks  she  had  known  nothing  of 
the  country,  and  now  she  found  herself  in  the 
snow  fairy-land  of  which  the  Disagreeable  Man 
had  often  spoken  to  her.  Around,  vast  plains 
of  untouched  snow,  whiter  than  any  dream  of 


72  SHIPS  THA  T  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

whiteness,  jewelled  by  the  sunshine  with  price- 
less diamonds,  numberless  as  the  sands  of  the 
sea.  The  great  pines  bearing  their  burden  of 
snow  patiently  ;  others,  less  patient,  having 
shaken  themselves  free  from  what  the  heavens, 
had  sent  them  to  bear.  And  now  the  streams, 
flowing  on  reluctantly  over  ice-coated  rocks,  and 
the  ice  cathedrals  formed  by  the  icicles  between 
tlie  locks. 

And  always  the  same  silence,  save  for  the, 
tinklinc:  of  the  horses'  bells. 

On'  the  heights  the  quaint  chalets,  some 
merely  huts  for  storing  wood  ;  on  others,  farms, 
or  the  homes  of  peasants  ;  some  dark  brown, 
almost  black,  betraying  their  age;  others  of  a 
p^ler  hue,  showing  that  the  sun  had  not  yet 
mellowed  them  into  a  deep  rich  colour.  And 
on  all  alike,  the  fringe  of  icicles.  A  wonderful 
white  world. 

It  was  a  long  time  before  Bernardine  even 
wished  to  speak.  This  beautiful  whiteness 
may  become  monotonous  after  a  time,  but  there 
is  something  very  awe-inspiring  about  it,  some- 
tliiugt  which,  catohes  the  soul  and  holds  it. 


THE  DISAGREEABLE  MAN  IN  A  NEW  LIGIIT^1% 

Tbe  Disagreeable  Man  sat  quietly  by  her  side. 
Once  or  twice  he  bent  forward  to  protect  the 
camera  when  the  sledge  gave  a  lurch. 

After  some  time  they  met  a  procession  of 
sledges  laden  with  timber ;  and  August,  the 
driver,  and  Robert  Aliitsen  exchanged  some 
fun  and  merriment  with  the  drivers  in  their 
quaint  blue  smocks.  The  noise  of  the  conver- 
sation, and  the  excitement  of  getting  past  the 
sledges,  brought  Bernardine  back  to  speech 
again. 

"  I  have  never  before  enjoyed  anything  so 
much,"  she  said. 

"  So  you  have  found  your  tongue,"  he  said. 
"  Do  you  mind  talking  a  little  now  ?  I  feel 
rather  lonely." 

This  was  said  in  such  a  pathetic,  aggrieved 
tone,  that  Bernardine  laughed  and  looked  at  her 
companion.  His  face  wore  an  unusually  bright 
expression.  He  was  evidently  out  to  enjoy 
himself. 

"  You  talk,"  she  said  ;  "  and  tell  me  all  about 
the  country." 

And  he  told  her  what  he  knew,  and,  amongst 


74  SmrS  T[IA  T  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

other  things,  about  the  avalanches.  He 'was 
able  to  point  out  where  some  had  fallen  the 
previous  year.  He  stopped  in  the  middle  of  his 
conversation  to  tell  her  to  put  up  her  umbrella. 

"  I  can't  trouble  to  hold  it  for  you,"  he  said  ; 
"but  I  don't  mind  opening  it.  The  sun  is 
blazing  to-day,  and  you  will  get  your  eyes  bad 
if  you  are  not  careful.  That  would  be  a  pity, 
for  you  seem  to  me  rather  better  lately.'' 

'-'-What  a  confession  for  you  to  make  of  any 
one  !  "  said  she. 

^"Oh,  I  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  will  ever 
get  \vell,"  he  added  grimly.  "You  seem  to  have 
pulled  yourself  in  too  many  directions  for  that. 
You  have  tried  to  be  too  alive  ;  and  now  you 
are  obhged  to  join  the  genus  cabbage." 

''  I  am  certainly  less  ill  than  I  was  when  I 
first  came,"  she  said  ;  "  and  I  feel  in  a  better 
frame  of  mind  altogether.  I  am  learning  a 
good  deal  in  sad  Petershof " 

"  That  is  ^  more  .  than  I  have  :.  done,"  ho 
answered. 

"  Well,  perhaps'ybu  teaich  instead,"  she  said. 
"  You  have  taught  me  sevei'al  things.     Now,  go 


THE  DISACREEABLE  MAN  IN  A  NEW  LIGHT.      76 

on  telling  ms  about  the  country  people.     You 
like  them  ?  " 

"I  Icve  them,"  he  said  smiply.  "I  know 
them  well,  and  they  know  me.  You  s6e  I  have 
been  in  this  district  so  long  now,  and  have 
walked  about  so  much,  that  the  very  wood- 
cutters know  me  ;  and  the  drivers  give  me  lifts 
on  their  piles  of  timber." 

"You  are  not.  surly  with  the  poor  people, 
then  \ "  said  Bernardine  ;  "  though  I  must  say 
I  cannot  imagine  you  being  genial.  Were  you 
ever  genial,  I  wonder?" 

"  1  don't  think  that  has  ever  been  laid  to  my 
charge,"  he  answered. 

The  time  passed  away  pleasantly.  The  Dis- 
agi'eeable  Man  was  scarcely  himself  to-day  ;  or 
was  it  that  he  was  more  like  himself?  He 
seemed  in  a  boyish  mood ;  he  made  fun  out  of 
nothing,  and  laughed  with  such  young  fresh 
laughter,  that  even  August,  the  grave  blue 
spectacled  driver,  was  moved  to  mirth.  As  for 
Bernardine,  she  had  to  look  at  Robert  Allitsen 
several  times  to  be  sure  that  he  was  the  same 
Robert  Allitsen  she  had  known  two  hours  ago 


76  SHIPS  THA  T  PASS  IN  THE  NlCHT 

in  Petershof  But  she  made  no  remaik.  and 
showed  no  surprise,  but  met  his  merrmess  half 
way.  No  one  could  be  a  cheerier  companion 
than  herself  when  she  chose. 

At  last  they  arrived  at  Loschwitz  The  sleJge 
wound  its  way  through  the  sloshy  streets  of  the 
queer  little  village,  and  finally  d^-ew  up  m  front  of 
the  Gasthaus.  It  was  a  black  sunburnt  chfilet, 
with  green  shutters,  and  steps  leading  up  to  a 
green  balcony.  A  fringe  of  sausages  hung  i'rom 
the  roof,  red  bedding  was  scorching  in  the  sun- 
shine ,  three  cats  were  sunning  themselves  on 
the  steps;  a  young  woman  sat  in  the  green 
balcony. knitting  There  were  some  curious  in- 
scriptions on  the  walls  of  the  chalet,  and  the 
date  was  distinctly  marked,  "  1670." 

An  old  woman  over  the  way  sat  in.her_door- 
way  spinning  She  looked  up  as  the  sledge 
stopped  before  the  Gasthaus;  but  the  young 
woman  in  the  green  balcony  went  on  knitting, 
and  saw  nothing. 

A  buxom  elderly  Hausfrau  came  out  to  greet 
the  guests.  She  wore  a  naturally  kind  expres- 
sion on  her  old  face,  but  when  she  saw  who  the 


THE  DISAGREEABLE  MAN  AV  A  A'EIV  LIGHT.      77 

gentleman  was,  the  kindness  positive  increased 
to  kindness  superlative. 

She  first  retired  and  called  out : 

"  Liza,  Fritz,  Liza,  Triidchen,  come  quickly  !  " 

Then  she  came  back,  and  cried : 

"  Herr  Allitsen,  what  a  surprise  1  '* 

She  shook  his  hand  times  without  number, 
greeted  Bernardine  with  motherly  tenderness, 
and  interspei'sed  all  her  remarks  with  frantic 
cries  of  "  Liza,  Fritz,  Triidchen,  make  haste  !  " 

She  became  very  hot  and  excited,  and 
gesticulated  violently. 

All  this  time  the  young  woman  sat  knitting, 
but  not  looking  up.  She  had  been  beautiful,  but 
her  face  was  worn  now,  and  her  eyes  had  that 
vacant  stare  M'hich  betokened  the  vacant 
mind. 

The  mother  whispered  to  Robert  Allitsen  : 

"  She  notices  no  one  now ;  she  sits  there 
always  waiting." 

Tears  came  into  the  kind  old  eyes. 

Robert  Allitsen  went  and  bent  down  to  the 
young  woman,  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"  Catharina,"  he  said  gently. 


78  SI//PS  THA  T  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

'  She  looked   up   then,   and    saw    him,    and 
recognized  him. 

Then  the  sad  face  smiled  a  vrelcome. 

He  sat  near  her,  and  took  her  knitting  in  his 
hand,  pretending  to  examine  what  she  had 
done,  ch.atting  to  her  quietly  all  the  time.  He 
abked  her  what  she  had  been  doing  with  herself 
since  he  had  last  seen  her,  and  she  said  : 

"  Waiting.     I  am  always  waiting. 

He  knew  that  she  referred  to  her  lover,  who 
had  been  lost  in  an  avalanche  the  eve  before 
their  wedding  morning.  That  was  four  years 
ago,  but  Catharina  was  still  waiting.  Allitsen 
remembered  her  as  a  bright  young  girl,  singing 
in  the  Gasthaus,  waiting  cheerfully  on  the 
guests  :  a  bright  gracious  presence.  No  one 
could  cook  trout  as  she  could  ;  many  a  dish  of 
trout  had  she  served  up  for  him.  And  now  she 
sat  in  the  sunshine  knitting  and  waiting, 
scarcely  ever  looking  up.     That  was  Iier  life. 

"  Catharina,"  he  said,  as  he  gave  her  back  her 
knitting,  "  do  you  remember  how  you  used  to 
cook  me  the  trout  ?  " 


THE  DISAGREEABLE  MAN  IN  A  NEW  LIGHT.      79 

Another  smile  passed  over  her  face.  Yes,  she 
remembered. 

"  Will  you  cook  me  some  to-day  ?" 

She  shook  her  head,  and  returned  to  her 
knitting. 

Bernardine  watclied  the  Disagreeable  Man 
with  amazement.  She  could  not  have  believed 
that  his  manner  could  be  so  tender  and  kindly. 
The  old  mother  standing  near  her  whispered  : 

■"  He  was  always  so  good  to  us  all ;  we  love 
him,  every  one  of  us.  When  poor  Catharina 
was  betrothed  five  years  ago,  it  was  to  Herr 
Allitsen  we  first  told  the  good  news.  He  has  a 
wonderful  way  about  him — just  look  at  him, 
with  Catharina  now.  She  has  not  noticed  any 
one  for  months,  but  she  knows  him,  you  see." 

At  that  moment  the  other  members  of  the 
household  came  :  Liza,  Fritz,  and  Triidchen  ; 
Liza,  a  maiden  of  nineteen,  of  the  homely  Swiss 
type  ;  Fritz,  a  handsome  lad  of  fourteen  ;  and 
Triidchen,  just  free  from  school,  with  her  school- 
satchel  swung  on  her  back.  There  was  no 
shyness  in  their  greeting ;  the  Disagreeable 
Man   was   evidently  an   old    and   much-loved 


80  SHIPS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

friend,  and  inspired  confidence,  not  awe.  Trlid- 
chen  fumbled  in  his  coat  pocket,  and  found 
what  she  expected  to  find  there,  some  sweets, 
which  she  immediately  began  to  eat,  perfectly 
contented  and  self-satisfied.  She  smiled  and 
nodded  at  Robert  Allitsen,  as  though  to  reassure 
him  that  the  sweets  were  not  bad,  and  that  she 
was  enjoying  them. 

"  Liza  will  see  to  lunch,"  said  the  old  mother. 
"  You  shall  have  some  mutton  cutlets  and  some 
forellen.  But  before  she  goes,  she  has  something 
to  tell  you." 

"I  am  betrothed  to  Hans,"  Liza  said,  blushino^. 

"  I  always  knew  you  were  fond  of  Hans," 
said  the  Disagreeable  Man.  "  He  is  a  good 
fellow,  Liza,  and  I'm  glad  you  love  him.  But 
haven't  you  just  teased  him  !  " 

"  That  was  good  for  him,"  Liza  said  brightly. 

*'  Is  he  here  to-day  ? "  Robert  Allitsen  asked. 

Liza  nodded, 

'•  Then  I  shall  take  your  photographs,"  he 
said. 

While  they  had  been  speaking,  Catharina 
rose  from  her  seat,  and  passed  into  the  housa 


THE  DISACKEEABLE  MAN  IN  A  NEIV  LIGHT.     ;  i 

Her  mother  followed  her,  and  watched  her  go 
into  the  kitchen. 

"  I  should  like  to  cook  the  forellen,"  she  said 
very  quietly. 

It  was  months  since  she  had  done  anything 
in  the  house.  The  old  mother's  heart  beat  with 
pleasure. 

"  Catharina,  my  best  loved  child  !"  she  whis- 
pered ;  and  she  gathered  the  poor  suffering  soul 
inear  to  her. 

In  about  half  an  hour  the  Disagreeable  Man 
(and  Bernardino  sat  down  to  their  meal.  Robert 
Allitsen  had  ordered  a  bottle  of  Sassella,  and 
he  was  just  pouring  it  out  when  Catharina 
brought  in  the  for  ell  cyi. 

"  Why,  Catharina,"  he  said,  "  you  don't  mean 
you've  cooked  them  ?   Then  they  will  be  good  !  " 

She  smiled,  and  seemed  pleased,  and  then 
went  out  of  the  room. 

Then  he  told  Bernardine  her  history,  and 
spoke  with  such  kindness  and  sympathy  that 
Bernardine  was  again  amazed  at  him.  But  she 
made  no  remark. 

*'  Catharina  was  always  sorry  that  I  was  ill,"  he 


82  SmPS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

said.  "When  I  stayed  here,  as  I  have  done,  for 
weeks  together,  she  used  to  take  every  care  of  me. 
And  it  was  a  kindly  sympathy  which  I  could 
not  resent. ,  In  those  days  I  was  suffering  more 
than  I  have  done  for  a  long  time  now,  and  she 
was  very  pitiful.  She  could  not  bear  to  hear 
ma  cough.  I  used  to  tell  her  that  she  must 
learn  not  to  feel.  But  you  see  she  did  not 
learn  her  lesson,  for  when  this  trouble  came 
on  her,  she  felt  too  much.  And  you  see  what 
she  is." 

They  had  a  cheery  meal  together,  and  then 
Bernardine  talked  with  the  old  mother,  whilst 
the  Disagreeable  Man  busied  himself  with  his 
camera.  Liza  was  for  putting  on  her  best  di'ess, 
and  doing  her  hair  in  some  wonderful  way.  But 
he  would  not  hear  of  such  a  thing.  But  seeing 
that  she  looked  disappointed,  he  gave  in,  and 
said  she  should  be  photographed  just  as  she 
wished  ;  and  off  she  ran  to  change  her  attire. 
She  went  up  to  her  room  a  picturesque,  homely 
working  girl,  and  she  came  down  a  tidy,  awk- 
ts^ard-looking  young  Avoman,  with  all  her  finery 
on,  and  all  her  charm  off. 


THE  DISAGREEABLE  MAN  IN  A  NEW  LIGHT.      83 

The  '  Disagreeable  Man  grimted,  but  said, 
nothing. 

Then  Hans  arrived,  and  then  came  the  posing", 
which  caused  much  amusement.  They  both 
stood  perfectly  straight,  just  as  a  soldier 
stands  before  presenting  arms.  Both  faces 
were  perfectly  expressionless.  The  Disagreeable 
Man  was  in  despair. 

"  Look  happy  ! "  he  entreated. 

They  tried  to  smile,  but  the  anxiety  to  do  so 
produced  an  expression  of  melancholy  which 
was  too  much  for  the  -gravity  of  the  photo- 
grapher.    He  laughed  heartily. 

"Look  as  though  you  weren't  going  to  bo 
photographed,"  he  suggested.  "Liza,  for 
goodness'  sake  look  as  though  you  were  baking 
the  bread ;  and  Hans,  try  and  believe  that  you 
are  doing  some  of  your  beautiful  carving." 

The  patience  of  the  photographer  was  some- 
thing wonderful.  At  last  he  succeeded  in 
making  them  appear  at  their  ease.  And 
then  he  told  Liza  that  she  must  go  and 
change  her  dress,  and  be  photographed  now 
in  the  way  he  wished.     She  came  down  again, 

G  2 


M  SHIPS  THA  T  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

looking  fifty  times  prettier  in  her  working 
clotties. 

Now  he  was  in  his  element.  He  arranged 
Liza  and  Hans  on  the  sledge  of  timber,  which 
had  then  driven  up,  and  made  a  picturesque 
group  of  them  all :  Hans  and  Liza  sitting 
side  by  side  on  the  timber,  the  horses 
standing  there  so  patiently  after  their  long 
journey  through  the  forests,  the  driver  leaning 
against  his  sledge  smoking  his  long  china 
pipe. 

"  That  will  be  something  like  a  picture,"  he 
said  to  Bernardino,  when  the  performance  was 
over.  "  Now  I  am  going  for  about  a  mile's 
walk.  Will  you  come  with  me  and  see  what  I 
am  going  to  photograph,  or  will  you  rest  here 
till  I  come  back  ? " 

She  chose  the  latter,  and  during  his  absence 
was  shown  the  treasures  and  possessions  of  a 
Swiss  peasant's  home. 

She  was  taken  to  see  the  cows  in  the  stalls, 
and  had  a  lecture  given  her  on  the  respective 
merits  of  Schneewitchen,  a  white  caw,  Kartof- 
felkuchen,  a  dark  brown  one.  and  Roslein,  the 


7  HE  DISA  C  REE  ABLE  MAN  IN  A  NE  W  LIGHT.     85 

beauty  of  them  all.  Then  she  looked  at  the 
spinning- wheel,  and  watched  the  old  Hausfravx 
turn  the  treadle.  And  so  the  time  passed, 
Bernardino  making  good  friends  of  them  all. 
Catharina  had  returned  to  her  knitting,  and 
began  working,  and,  as  before,  not  noticing  any 
one.  But  Bernardino  sat  by  her  side,  playing 
with  the  cat,  and  after  a  time  Catharina  looked 
up  at  Bernardino's  little  thin  face,  and,  after 
some  hesitation,  stroked  it  gently  with  her 
hand. 

"  Friiulein  is  not  strong,"  she  said  tenderly, 
"If  Friiulein  lived  here,  I  should  take  care  of 
her. 

That  was  a  remnant  of  Catharina's  past 
She  had  always  loved  everything  that  was 
ailing  and  weakly. 

Her  hand  rested  on  Bernardino's  hand. 
Bernardino  pressed  it  in  kindly  sympathy, 
thinking  the  while  of  the  girl's  past  happiness 
and  present  bereavement. 

"  Liza  is  betrothed,"  she  said,  as  though  to 
herself  "  They  don't  tell  me  ;  but  I  know.' 
I  was  betrotl:ied  once." 


8(5  SHIPS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT, 

She  went  on  knitting.  And  that  was  all 
she  said  of  herself. 

Then  after  a  pause  she  said  . 

"  Friiulein  is  betrothed  ?  " 

Bernardine  smiled,  and  shook  her  head,  and 
Catharina  made  no  further  inquiries.  But  she 
looked  up  from  her  work  from  time  to  time, 
and  seemed  pleased  that  Bernardine  still  stayed 
with  her.'  At  last  the  old  mother  came  to  say 
that  the  coffee  was  ready,  and  Bernardine 
followed  her  into  the  parlour. 

She  watched  Bernardine  drinking  the  coftee, 
and  finally  poured  herself  out  a  cup  too. 

"  This  is  the  first  time  Herr  Allitsen  has  ever 
brought  a  friend,"  she  said.  "  He  has  always 
been  alone.  Fraulein  is  betrothed  to  Herr 
Allitsen — is  that  so  ?  Ah,  I  am  glad.  He  is  so 
good  and  so  kind." 

Bernardine  stopped  drinking  her  coffee.  J 

"  No,  I  am  not  betrothed,"  she  said  cheerily.  ^^ 
*'  We  are  just  friends  ;   and  not  always  thab 
either.     We  quarrel." 

"All  lovers  do  that,'  persisted  Frau  Stein • 
hart  triumphantly. 


I 


THE  DISAGREEABLE  MAN  IN  A  NEW  LIGHT.      87 

"  Well,  you  ask  him  yourself,"  said 
Bernardine,  much  amused.  She  hod  never 
looked  upon  Robert  AUltsen  iu  that  light 
before.     "  See,  there  he  comes." 

Bernardine  was  not  present  at  the  court 
martial,  but  this  was  what  occurred.  Whilst 
the  Disagreeable  Man  was  paying  the  reckon- 
ing, Frau  Steinhart  said  in  her  most  motherly 
tones  : 

"  Fraulein  is  a  very  dear  young  lady :  Herr 
Allitsen  has  made  a  wise  choice.  He  is 
betrothed  at  last." 

The  Disagreeable  Man  stopped  counting  out 
the  money. 

"  Stupid  old  Frau  Steinhart ! "  he  said  good- 
naturedly.  "  People  likQ  myself  don't  get 
betrothed.     We  get  buried  instead  !  " 

"  Na,  na  !  "  she  answered.  "  What  a  thincr  to 
Eay — and  so  unlike  you  too !     No,  but  tell  me." 

"  Well,  I  am  telling  you  the  truth,"  he 
replied.  "  If  you  won't  believe  me,  ask 
Frixulein  herself" 

"  I  have  asked  her,"  said  Frau  Steinhart, 
*'  and  she  told  me  to  ask  you," 


88  SHIPS  Til  A  T  PASS  IN  THE  NICH7 

The  Disagreeable  Man  was  much  amused. 
He  had  never  thought  of  Bernardine  in  that 
way 

He  paid  the  bill,  and  then  did  something 
which  rather  astonished  Frau  Steinhart,  and 
half  convinced  her. 

He  took  the  bill  to  Bernardine,  told  her  the 
amount  of  her  share,  and  she  repaid  him  then 
and  there. 

There  was  a  twinkle  in  her  eye  as  she 
looked  up  at  him.  Then  the  composure  of  her 
features  relaxed,  and  she  laughed. 

He  laughed  too,  but  no  comment  was  made 
upon  the  episode.  Then  began  the  good- 
byes, and  the  preparations  for  the  return 
journey. 

Bernardine  bent  over  Catharina,  and  kissed 
her  sad  face. 

"  Fraulein  will  come  agaui  ?  "  she  whispered 
eagerly. 

And  Bernardine  promised.  There  was  some- 
thing in  Bernardine's  manner  which  had  won 
the  poor  girl's  fancy  :  some  unspoken  sy mpa  tliy, 
Bome  quiet  geniality. 


THE  DISAGREEABLE  MAN  IN  A  NEW  LIGHT.     B9 

Just  as  they  were  starting,  Frau  Steinliart 
whispered  to  Robert  Allitsen  : 

"  It  is  a  little  disappointing  to  me,  Herr 
Allitsen,     I  did  so  hope  you  were  betrothed." 

August,  the  blue-spectacled  driver,  cracked 
his  whip,  and  off  the  horses  started  homewards. 

For  some  time  there  was  no  conversation 
between  the  two  occupants  of  the  sledge. 
Bernardino  was  busy  thinking  about  the 
experiences  of  the  day,  and  the  Disagreeable 
Man  seemed  in  a  brown  study.  At  last  Le 
broke  the  silence  by  asking  her  how  she  liked 
his  friends,  and  what  she  thought  of  Swiss 
home  life ;  and  so  the  time  passed  pleasantly. 

He  looked  at  her  once,  and  said  she  seemed 
cold. 

"  You  are  not  warmly  clothed,"  he  said.  "  I 
have  an  extra  coat.  Put  it  on  ;  don't  make  a 
fuss,  but  do  so  at  once.  I  know  the  climate, 
and  you  don't." 

She  obeyed,  and  said  she  was  all  the  cosier 
for  it. 

As  they  were  nearing  Petershof,  he  said 
lialf-nervously  : 


W  SHIPS  THA  T  pass  in  THE  NIGHT. 

"  So  my  friends  took  you  ibr  my  betrothed. 
I  hope  you  are  not  oifended  " 

"  Wh}'  should  I  be  ?  "  she  said  frankly.  "  I 
was  only  amused,  because  there  never  were  two 
people  less  lover-like  than  you  and  I  are." 

"  No,  that's  quite  true,"  he  replied,  in  a  tone 
of  voice  which  betokened  relief 

"  So  that  I  really  don't  see  that  we  need 
concern  ourselves  further  in  the  matter,"  she 
added,  wishing  to  put  him  quite  at  his  ease. 
"  I'm  not  offended,  and  you  are  not  d  ffended, 
and  there's  an  end  of  it." 

"  You  seem  to  me  to  be  a  very  sensible 
young  woman  in  some  respects,"  the  Disagree- 
able Man  remarked  after  a  pause.  He  was 
now  quite  cheerful  again,  and  felt  he  could  really 
praise  his  companion.  "  Although  you  have 
read  so  much,  you  seem  to  me  sometimes  to 
take  a  sensible  view  of  things.  Now,  I  don't 
want  tote  betrothed  to  you,  any  more  than  I 
suppose  you  want  to  be  betrothed  to  me.  And 
yet  we  ca}i  talk  quietly  about  the  matter 
without  a  scene.  That  would  be  impossible 
with  most  womenj' 


TffE  DISAGREEABLE  MAN  IN  A  NEW  LIGHT.     •) 

Bemardine  laughed. 

"  Well,  I  only  know,"  she  said  cheerily, 
"  that  I  have  enjoyed  my  day  very  much,  and 
I'm  much  obli^'ed  to  you  tor  your  companionship. 
The  fresh  air,  and  the  change  of  surroundings, 
wrfl  have  done  me  good." 

His  reply  was  characteristic  of  him. 

"  It  is  the  least  disagreeable  day  I  have 
spent  for  many  months,"  he  said  quietly. 

"  Let  me  settle  with  you  for  the  sledge 
now,"  she  said,  drawing  out  her  purse,  just  as 
they  came  in  sight  of  the  Kurhaus. 

They  settled  money  matters,  and  were  quits. 

Then  he  helped  her  out  of  the  sledge, 
and  he  stooped  to  pick  up  the  shawl  she 
dropped. 

"  Here  is  the  shawl  you  are  always 
dropping,"  he  said.  "  You're  rather  cold, 
aren't  you  ?  Here,  come  to  the  restaurant  and 
have  some  brandy.  Don't  make  a  fuss.  I 
know  what's  the  right  thing  for  you." 

She  followed  him  to  the  restaurant,  touched 
by  his  rough  kindness.  He  himself  took 
nothing,  but  he  paid  for  her  brandy. 


92 .  SHITS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

Tliat  evening  after  tahle-dhotc,  or  rather 
after  he  had  finished  his  dinner,  he  rose  to  go 
to  his  room  as"  usuah  He  generally  went  off 
without  a  remark.     But  to-night  he  said  : 

"  Good-night,  and  thank  you  for  your  com- 
panionship. It  has  been  my  birthday  to-day, 
and  I've  quite  enjoyed  it,"  " 


CHAPTER  XI. 

IF  ONE  HAS  MADE  THE  ONE  GREAT  SACRIFICE." 

There  was'  a  smcide  in  the  Kurhaus  one 
afternoon.  A  Dutchman,  Vandervelt,  had 
received  rather  a  bad  account  of  himself  from 
the  doctor  a  few  days  previotisly,  and  in  a  fit 
of  depression,  so  it  was  thought,  he  had  put 
a  bullet  through  his  head.  It  had  occurred 
through  Marie's  unconscious  agency.  She  found 
him  lying  on  his  sofa  when  she  went  as  usual 
to  take  him  his  afternoon  glass  of  milk.  He 
asked  her  to  give  him  a  packet  which,  was  on 
the  top  shelf  of  his  cupboard. 

"  Willingly,"  she  said,  and  she  jumped  nimbly 
on  the  chair,  and  gave  hun  the  case. 

*'  Anything  more  ? "  she  asked  kindly,  as  she 


M  SHIPS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

watched  him  draw  himself  up  from  the  sofa. 
She  thought  at  the  time  that  he  looked  wild 
and  strange ;  but  then,  as  she  pathetically  said 
afterwards,  who  did  not  look  wild  and  strange 
in  the  Kurhaus  ? 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "Here  are  five  francs  for 
you." 

She  thought  that  rather  unusual  too  ;  hut 
five  francs,  especially  coming  unexpectedly 
like  that,  were  not  to  be  despised,  and 
Marie  determined  to  send  them  off  to  that 
Mxdlcrli  at  home  in  the  nut-brown  chalet  at 
Grlisch. 

So  she  thanked  Mynheer  van  Vandervelt, 
and  went  off  to  her  pantry  to  drink  some  cold 
tea  which  the  English  people  had  left,  and  to 
clean  the  lamps.  Having  done  that,  and 
knowing  that  the  matron  was  busily  engaged 
carrying  on  a  flirtation  with  a  young  French- 
man, Marie  took  out  her  writing  materials,  and 
began  a  letter  to  her  old  mother.  These 
peasants  know  how  to  loye  each  other,  and 
some  of  them  know  how  to  tell  each  other  too. 
Marie  knew.     And  she  told  her  mother  of  the 


*'THE  ONE  GREAT  SACRIFICE.  65 

gifts     she     was     bringing     home,    the     little 
nothings  given  her  by  the  guests. 

She  was  very  happy  writing  this  letter  :  the 
little  nut-brown  home  rose  before  her. 

"  Ach  ! "  she  said,  "  how  I  long  to  be  home  ! " 

And  then  '  she  put  down  .  her  pen,  and 
sighed. 

"  Ach  I "  she  said,  "  and  when  I'm  there,  I 
shall  long  to  be  here.  Da  wo  ich  niclit  bin,  da 
ist  das  GlucL" 

Marie  was  something  of  a  philosopher. 

Suddenly  she  heard  the  report  of  a  pistol,, 
foUowed  by  a  second  report.  She  dashed  out 
of  her  little  pantry,  and  ran  in  the  direction  of 
the  sound.  She  saw  Warli  in  the  passage. 
He  was  looking  scared,  and  his  letters  had 
fallen  to  the  ground.     He  pointed  to  No.  54. 

It  was  the  Dutchman's  room. 

Help  arrived.  The  door  was  forced  open, 
and  Vandervelt  wp,s  found  dead.  The  case 
from  which  he  had  taken  the  pistol  was  lying 
on  the  sofa.  When  Marie  saw  that,  she  knew 
that  she  had  been  an  unconscious  accomplice. 
Her    tender    heart    overflowed    with    grief.' 


96  SHIPS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT 

Whilst  others  were  lifting  him  up,  she. leaned 
her  head  against  the  wall,  and  sobbed. 

"It  was  my  fault,  it  was  my  fault  1"  she 
cned.  "  I  gave  him  the  case.  But  how  was  I 
Xo  know  ? 

^They  took  her  away,  and^tried  to  comfort 
ther,  but  it  was  all  in  vain. 

^  And  he  gave  me  five  francs,"  she  sobbed. 
•!:^I  shudder  to  think  of  them." 

It  was  all  in  vain  that  Warli  gave  her  a  letter 
for  ^hich  she  had  been  longing  for ,  many 
days. 

^  It  is  from  your  Mutterli"  he  said,  as  he  put 
it  into  her  hands.  "I  give  it  willingly.  I 
don't  like  the  look  of  one  or  two  of  the  letters 
l^have  to  give  you,  Mariechen.  That  Hans 
writes  to  you.    Confound  him  !  " 

But  nothing  could  cheer  her.  Wiirli  went 
away  shaking  his  curly  head  sadly,  shocked  at 
the  death  of  the  Dutchman,  and  shocked  at 
Marie's  sorrow.  And  the  cheery  little  postman 
did  not  do  much  whistling  that  evening 

Bernardine  heard  of  Marie's  trouble,  and 
rang  for  her  to  come.     Marie  answered  the  bell. 


••  TJIE  ONE  CREA  T  SA  CRIFICB."  97 

looking  the  picture  of  misery.       Her  kind  face 
was  tear-stained,  and  her  only  voice  was  a  sob. 

Bernardine  drew  the  girl  to  her. 

"Poor  old  Marie,"  she  whispered.  "Come 
and  cry  your  kind  heart  out,  and  then  you  will 
feel  better.  Sit  by  me  here,  and  don't  try  to 
speak.  And  I  will  make  you  some  tea  in  true 
English  fashion,  and  you  must  take  it  hot,  and 
it  will  do  you  good." 

The  simple  sisterly  kindness  and  silent  sym- 
pathy soothed  Marie  after  a  time.  The  sobs 
ceased,  and  the  tears  also  And  Marie  put  her 
hand  in  her  pocket  and  gfave  Bernardino  the 
five  francs, 

"Fraulein  Holme,  I  hate  them,"  she  said. 
"  I  could  never  keep  them.  How  could  I  send 
them  now  to  my  old  mother  ?  They  would 
bring  her  ill  luck — indeed  they  would." 

The  matter  was  solved  by  Bernardine  in  a 
nasterly  fashion.  She' suggested  that  Marie 
i.hould  buy  flowers  with  the  money,  and  put 
iheui  on  the  Dutchmdn's  coffin.  This  idea 
comforted  Marie  beyond  Beruardine'a  most 
sanguine  expectations. 

n 


93  SHIPS  THAT  PASS  iN  NICHT^ 

"  A  beauLiTul  tin  wreath,"  she  said  several 
times.  "I  know  the  exact  kind.  When  my 
father  died,  we  put  ons  on  his  grave." 

That  same  evening,  during  table-d'liole, 
Bernardine  told  the  Disagreeable  Man  the 
liistory  of  the  afternoon.  He  had  been 
developing  photographs,  and  had  heard  nothing. 
He  seemed  very  little  interested  in  her  relation 
of  the  suicide,  and  merely  remarked  : 

"Well,  there's  one  person  less  m  the 
world." 

"I  think  you  make  these  femarks  from 
habit,"  Bernardine  said  quietly,  and  she  went 
on  with  her  dinner,  attempting  no  further  con- 
veisation  with  him  She  herself  had  been 
much  moved  by  the  sad  occurrence  ;  every  one 
in  the  Kurhaus  was  more  or  less  upset :  and 
there  was  a  thoughtful,  anxious  expression  on 
more  than  one  ordinarily  thoughtless  face. 
The  little  French  danseuse  was  quiet :  the 
Portuguese  ladies  were  decidedly  tearful  :  the 
vulgar  German  Baroness  was  quite  depressed  : 
the  comedian  at  the  Belgian  table  ate  hisdinncr 
in  silence.     In  fact,  there  v^as  a  weight  press- 


♦'  THE  ONE  GREA  T  SA CRIFICE."  99 

ing  down  on  all.  Was  it  really  possible, 
thought  Bernardino,  that  Robert  Allitsen  was 
the  only  one  there  unconcerned  and  unmoved  ? 
She  had  seen  him  in  a  different  light  amongst 
his  friends,  the  country  folk,  but  it  was  just  a 
glimpse  which  had  not  lasted  long.  The  young- 
heartedness,  the  geniality,  the  sympathy  which 
had  so  astonished  her  during  their  day's  outing, 
astonished  her  still  more  by  their  total  dis- 
appearance. The  gruffness  had  returned :  or 
had  it  never  been  absent  ?  The  lovelessness 
and  leadenness  of  his  temperament  had  once 
more  asserted  themselves  :  or  was  it  that  they 
had  never  for  one  single  day  been  in  the  back- 
ground ? 

These  thoughts  passed  through  her  mind  as 
he  sat  next  to  her  reading  his  paper — that 
paper  which  he  never  passed  on  to  any  one. 
She  hardened  her  heart  against  hun  ;  there 
was  no  need  for  ill-health  and  disappoint- 
ment to  have  brought  any  one  to  a  miserable 
state  of  indifference  like  that.  Then  she 
looked  at  his  wan  face  and  frail  form,  and  her 
heart  softened  at  once.     At  the  moment  when 

H  2 


100  SHJPS  THAT  PASS  TN  THE  HIGHT. 

her  heart  softened  to  him,  he  astonished  her 
by  handing  her  his  paper. 

*'  Here  is  something  to  interest  you,"  he 
said,  "  an  article  on  Reahstu  in  Fiction,  or 
some  nonsense  like  that.  You  aeedn't  read  it 
now.     I  don't  want  the  paper  again." 

"  I  tliought  you  never  lent  anything,"  she 
said,  as  she  glanced  at  the  article,  "  much  less 
gave  it." 

"  Givmg  and  lending  are  not  usually  in  my 
line,"  he  replied.  "  I  think  I  told  you  once 
that  I  thought  selfishness  perfectly  desirable 
and  legitimate,  if  one  had  made  the  one  great 
sacrifice." 

"  Yes,"  she  said  eagerly  ;  "  I  have  often 
wondered  what  you  considered  the  one  great 
sacrifice." 

"  Come  out  into  the  air,"  he  answered,  "  and 
I  will  tell  you." 

She  went  to  put  on  her  cloak  and  hat, 
and  found  him  waiting  for  her  at  the  top  of 
the  staircase.  They  passed  out  into  the 
beautiful  night :  the  sky  was  radiantly 
bejewelled,  the  aii-  crisp  and  cold,  and  harmless 


'•  THE,  ONE  GREAT  SACRIFICE."  101 

to  do  ill.  In  the  distance,  the  jodelling  of  some 
peasants.  In  the  hotels,  the  fun  and  merri- 
ment, side  by  side  with  the  suffering  and 
hopelessness.  In  the  deaconess's  house,  the 
body  of  the  Dutchman.  In  God's  heavens, 
God's  stars. 

Robert    Allitsen     and    Bernardine     walked 
silently  for  some  time. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  now  tell  me." 
"  The  one  great  sacrifice,"  he  said  half  to 
himself,  "  is  the  going  on  living  one's  life  for  the 
sake  of  another,  when  everything  that  would 
seem  to  make  life  acceptable  has  been  wrenched 
away,  not  the  pleasures,  but  the  duties,  and 
the  possibilities  of  expressing  one's  energies, 
either  in  one  direction  or  another:  when,  in. 
fact,  living  is  only  a  long  tedious  dying  If  one 
has  made  this  sacrifice,  everything  else  may  be 
forgiven." 

He  paused  a  moment,  and  then  continued  • 
"I  have  made  this  sacrifice,  therefore  I  con- 
sider I  have  done  my  part  without  flinching    The 
greatest  thing  T  had  to  give  up,  I  gave  up  :  my 
death.     More  could  not  be  required  of  any  one." 


102  snips  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

He  paused  again,  and  Bemardine  was  silent 
from  mere  awe. 

"But  freedom  comes  at  last,"  he  said,  "  and 
some  day  I  shall  be  free.  When  my  motheV 
dies,  I  shall  be  free.  She  is  old.  If  I  were  to 
die,  I  should  break  her  heart,  or  rather  she 
would  fancy  that  her  heart  was  broken.  (And 
It  comes  to  the  same  thing).  And  I  should 
not  hke  to  give  her  more  grief  than  she  has 
had.  So  I  am  just  waitmg.  It  may  be 
months,  or  weeks,  or  years.  But  I  know  how 
to  wait  if  I  have  not  learnt  anything  else,  I 
have  learnt  how  to  wait.     And  then  " 

Bernardine  had  unconsciously  put  her  hand 
on  his  arm  ;  her  face  was  fuU  of  suffering. 

"  And  then  ?  "  she  asked,  with  almost  painful 
eagerness. 

"  And  then  I  shall  follow  your  Dutclmxan's 
example,"  he  said  deliberately. 

Bernardine's  hand  fell  from  the  Disagreeable 
Man's  arm. 

She  shivered. 

"You  are  cold,  you  little  thing,"  he  said, 
almost  tenderly  for  him.     "  You  are  shivering." 


i 


"  THE  ONE  GREAT  SACRIFICE."'  t03 

"  Was  I  ?  "  she  said,  with  a  short  laugh.  "  I 
was  wondering  .when  you  would  get  your 
freedom,  and  whether  you  would  use  it  in  the 
fashion  you  now  intend." 

"  Why  should  there  be  any  doubt  ? "  he 
asked. 

"  One  always  hopes  there  would  be  a  doubt," 
she  said,  lialf  in  a  whisper. 

Then  he  looked  up,  and  sav/  all  the  pain  on 
the  little  face. 


CHAPTER  Xn. 

THE  DISAGREEABLE  MAN  MAKE3  A  LOAN. 

The  Dutchman  was  buried  in  the  little  cemetery 
which  faced  the  hospital.  Marie's  tin  wreath 
was  placed  on  the  grave.  And  there  the 
matter  ended.  The  Kurhaus  guests  recovered 
from,  their  depression :  the  German  Baroness 
returned  to  her  buoyant  vulgarity,  the  little 
danseuse  to  her  busy  flirtations.  The  French 
Marchioness,  celebrated  in  Parisian  circles  for 
lier  domestic  virtues,  from  which  she  was  now 
taking  a  holiday,  and  a  very  considerable  holiday! 
too,  gathered  her  nerves  together  again  and 
took  renewed  pleasure  in  the  society  of  the 
Russian  gentleman.  The  French  Marchioness 
had  already  been  requested  to  leave  three  other 


THE  DISAGREEABLE  MAN  MAKES  A   LOAN.      loa 

hotels  in  Petershof;  but  it  was  not  at  all 
probable  that  the  proprietors  of  the  Kurhaus 
wnild  have  presumed  to  measure  Madame's 
morality  or  immorality.  The  Kurhaus  com- 
mittee had  a  benign  indulgence  for  .humanity — 
provided  of  course  that  humanity  .had  a  purse 
— an  indulgence  which  some  of  the  English 
hotels  would  not  have  done  badly  to  imitate. 
There  was  a  story  afloat  concerning  the  English 
quarter,  that  a  tired  little  English' lady,  of  no 
importance  to  look  at,  probably  not  rich,  and 
probably  not  handsome,  came  to  the  most 
respectable  hotel  in  Petershof,  thinking  feo  find 
there  the  peace  and  quiet  which  her  weariness 
required. 

But  no  one  knew  who  the  little  lady  was, 
whence  she  had  come,  and  why.  She  kept 
entirely  to  herself,  and  was  thankful  for  the 
luxury  of  loneliness  after  some  overwhelming 
sorrow. 

One  day  she  was  requested  to  go.  The 
proprietor  of  the  hotel  was  distressed,  but  he 
could  not  do  otherwi.se  than  comply  with  the 
demands  of  his  guests. 


1C6  S///PS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

"  It  is  not  known  who  you  are,  Made- 
moiselle," he  said.  "And  you  are  not  approved 
of.  You  English  are  curious  j)eo])le.  But  what 
can  I  do  ?  You  have  a  cheap  room,  and  are  a 
stranger  to  me.  The  others  have  expensive 
apartments,  and  come  year  after  year.  You 
Ecc  my  position,  Mademoiselle  ?    I  am  sorry." 

So  the  little  tired  lady  had  to  go.  That  was 
how  the  story  went.  It  was  not  known  what 
became  of  her,  but  it  was  known  that  the 
English  people  in  the  Kurhaus  tried  to 
persuade  her  to  come  to  them.  But  she  had 
lost  heart,  and  left  in  distress. 

This  could  not  have  happened  in  the  Kurhaus, 
where  all  were  received  on  equal  terms,  those 
about  whom  nothing-  was  known,  and  those 
abaUt  whom  too  much  was  known.  The  strange 
mixture  and  tbe  contrasts  of  character  afforded 
endless  scope  for  observation  and  amusement, 
.ind  Bernardino,  who  was  daily  becoming  more 
interested  in  her  surroundings,  lelt  that  she 
would  have  been  sorry  to  have  exchanged  her 
present  abode  for  the  English  quarter.  The 
amusing  part  of  it  was  that  the  English  people 


THE  DISAGREEABLE  MAN  MAKES  A  LOAN.      107 

in-  the  Kurhaus  were  regarded  by  their  com- 
patriots in  the  English  quarter  as  sheep  of  the 
blackest  dye  !  This  was  all  the  more  ridiculous 
because  with  two  exceptions — firstly  of  Mrs. 
Reffold,  who  took  nearly  all  her  pleasures  with 
the  American  colony  in  the  Grand  Hotel ,  and 
secondly,  of  a  Scotch  widow  who  had  returned 
to  Petershof  to  weep  over  her  husband's  grave, 
but  put  away  her  grief  together  with  her 
widow's  weeds,  and  consoled  herself  with  a 
Spanish  gentleman — with  these  two  exceptions, 
the  httle  English  community  in  the  Kurhaus  was 
most  humdrum  and  harmless,  being  occupied,  as 
in  the  case  of  the  Disagi-eeable  Man,  with 
cameras  and  cheese-mites,  or  in  other  cases  with 
the  still  more  engrossing  pastime  of  taking  care 
of  one's  ill-health,  whether  real  or  fancied  :  but 
yet,  an  innocent  hobby  in  itself,  and  giving 
one  absolutely  no  leisure  to  do  anything  worse  : 
a  great  recommendation  for  any  pastime. 

This  was  not  Bernardino's  occupation  :  it  was 
difficult  to  say  what  she  did  with  herself,  for 
she  had  not  yet  followed  Robert  Allitsen's' 
advice  and  taken  up  some  definite  work;  and' 


108  SHIPS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NICHT 

t!ie  very  fact  that  slie  liad  no  such  wish, pointed 
probably  to  a  state  of"  health  which  foibade  it. 
She,  naturally  so  keen  and  hai-d- working,  was 
content  to  take  w  hat  the  hour  brought,  and  the 
hour  brought  various  things  che^s  with  the 
Swedish  professor,  or  Russian  dominoes  with 
the  shrivelled-up  little  Polish  governess  who 
always  tried  to  cheat,  and  who  clutched  her  tiny 
winnings  with  precisely  the  same  greediness 
shown  by  the  Monte  Carlo  female  gamblers. 
Or  the  hour  brought  a  stroll  with  the  French 
danseuse  and  her  poodle,  and  a  conversation 
about  the  mere  trivialities  of  life,  which  a  year 
or  two,  or  even  a  few  months  ago,  Bernard ine 
would  have  condemned  as  beneath  contempt, 
but  which  were  now  taking  their  rightful  place 
in  her  new  standard  of  importances.  For  some 
natures  learn  with  greater  difficulty  and  after 
greater  delay  than  others,  that  the  real 
importances  of  our  existence  are  the  nothing- 
nesses of  every-day  life,  the  nothingnesses  which 
the  philosopher  in  h-is  study,  reasoning  about 
and  analysing  human  character,  is  apt  to  over- 
look ,    but  which,  nevertheless,  make  him  and 


THE  DISAGREEABLE  MAN  MAKES  A  LOAN.      109 

every  one  else  more  of  a  human  reality  and  less 
of  an  abstraction.  And  Bernardino,  hitherto 
occupied  with  so-called  intellectual  pursuits, 
with  problems  of  the  study,  of  no  value  to  the 
great  world  outside  the  study,  or  with  social 
problems  of  the  great  world,  great  movements, 
and  great  questions,  was  now  just  beginning  to 
appreciate  the  value  of  the  little  incidents  of 
that  same  great  world.  Or  the  hour  brought  its 
own  thoughts,  and  Bernardino  found  herself 
constantly  thmking  of  the  Disagreeable  Man  : 
always  in  sorrow  and  always  with  sympathy, 
and  sometimes  with  tenderness. 

When  he  told  her  about  the  one  sacrifice,  she 
could  have  wished  to  wrap  him  iround  with  love 
and  tenderness.  If  he  could  only  have  known 
it,  he  had  never  been  so  near  love  as  then.  She 
had  suffered  so  much  herself, and, with  increasing 
weaknesses,  had  so  wished  to  put  off  the  burden 
of  the  flesh,  that  her  whole  heart  went  out  to 
him. 

"Would  he  get  his  freedom,  she  wondered, 
and  would  he  use  it  ?  Sometimes  when  she  was 
vdth  him,  she  would  look  up  to  see  whether  sho 


110  SHIPS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  MIGHT. 

could  read  the  answer  in  his  face  ;  but  she  never 
saw  any  variation  of  expression  there,  nothing 
to  give  her  even  a  suggestion.  But  this  she 
noticed  :  that  there  was  a  marked  variation  in 
his  manner,  and  that  when  he  had  been  roupli 
in  bearing,  or  bitter  in  speech,  he  made  silent 
amends  at  the  earhesb  opportunity  by  being- 
less  rough  and  less  bitter.  She  felt  this 
was  no  small  concession  on  the  part  of  the 
Disagreeable  Man. 

He  was  particularly  disagreeable  on  the  day 
when  the  Dutchman  was  buried,  and  so  the 
following  day  when  Bernardino  met  him  in  the 
little  English  library,  she  was  not  surprised  to 
find  him  almost  kindly. 

He  had  chosen  the  book  which  she  wanted, 
but  he  gave  it  up  to  her  at  once  without  any 
grum'bling,  though  Bernardino  expected  him 
to  change  his  mind  before  they  left  the 
library. 

•'  Well,"  he  said,  as  they  walked  along 
together,  "  and  have  you  recovered  from  the 
death  of  the  Dutchman  ? " 

"  Have  you  recovered,  rather  let  me  ask  ? " 


THE  DISAGKEEADLE  MAl^  .MAKES  A  LOAN.        Ill 

she  said.  "  You  were  in  a  horrid  mood  last 
night." 

*'  I  was  feeling  wretchedly  ill,"  he  said 
quietly. 

That  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  alluded 
to  his  own  health. 

"  Not  that  there  is  any  need  to  make  an 
excuse,"  he  continued,  "  for  I  do  not  recognise 
that  there  is  any  necessity  to  consult  one's 
eurroundinofs,  and  alter  the  inclination  of  one's 
mind  accordingly.  Still,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  1 
felt  very  ill." 

"  And  to-day  ? "  she  asked. 

"  To-day  I  am  myself  again,"  he-  answered 
quickly :  *'  that  usual  normal  self  of  mine, 
^yhatever  that  may  mean.  I  slept  well,  and  I 
dreamed  of  you.  I  can't  say  that  I  had  been 
thinking  of  you,  because  I  had  not.  But  I 
dreamed  that  we  were  children  together,  and 
pla.ymates.  Now  that  was  very  odd  :  because  I 
was  a  lonely  child,  and  never  had  any  playmates." 

■'  And  I  was  lonely  too,"  said  Bernardine. 

"  Every  one  is  lonely,"  he  said,  "  but  every 
one  does  not  know  it.' 


112  SJUrs  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

"  But  now  and  attain  the  knowledge  comes 
like  a  revelation,"  she  said,  "and  we  realise 
that  we  stand  practically  alone,  out  of  any  one's 
reach  for  help  or  comfort.  When  you  come  to 
think  of  it,  too,  how  little  able  we  are  to 
explain  ourselves.  When  you  have  wanted  to 
say  something  which  was  burning  within  you, 
have  you  not  noticed  on  the  face  of  the  listener 
that  unmistakable  look  of  non-comprehension, 
which  throws  you  back  on  yourself?  Tliat  is 
one  of  the  moments  when  the  soul  knows  its 
own  loneliness." 

Robert  Allitsen  looked  up  at  her.    ■ 

"  You  little  thing,"  he  said,  "you  put  tilings 
neatly  sometimes.  "  You  have  felt,  haven't 
you  ? 

"  I  suppose  so,"  she  said.  "  But  that  is  true 
of  most  people." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  answered,  "most 
people  neither  think  nor  feel :  unless  they  think 
they   have  an  ache,  and   tlien  they  feel   it  ! " 

"  I  believe,"  said  Bernardine,  "  that  there  is 
mure  thinking  and  feeling  than  one  generally 
supposes." 


THE  DISaCREEaBLE  MAN  MAKES  A  LOAN.       113 

"  Well,  I  can't  be  bothered  with  that'  now," 
be  said.  "  And  you  interrupted  me  about  my 
dream.     That  is  an  annoying  habit  you  have." 

"  Go  on."  she  s.'jid.     "  I  apologize." 

"  I  dreamed  we  were  children  together,  and 
playmates,"  he  continued  "  We  were  not  at 
all  happy  together,  but  still  we  were  playmates. 
There  was  nothing  we  did  not  quarrel  about. 
You  were  disagreeable,  and  I  was  spiteful. 
Our  greatest  dispute  was  over  a  CKvistmas- 
tree.  And  that  was  odd,  too,  for  I  have  never 
seen  a  Christmas-tree." 

"  Well  ? "  she  said,  for  he  h.ad  paused. 
"  What  a  long  time  you  lake  to  tell  a 
Btory  " 

"  You  were  not  called  Bernardine,"  he  said. 
"  You  were  called  by  some  ordinary  sensible 
name.  I  don't  remember  what.  But  you  were 
very  disagreeable.  That  I  remember  well. 
At  last  you  disappeared,  and  I  went  about 
looking  for  you.  '  If  I'  can  find  something  to 
cause  a  quarrel,'  I  said  to  myself,  '  she  will  come 
back.  So  I  went  and  smashed  your  doll's  head. 
But  you  did  not  come  back.     Then  I  set  on  fire 


1 14  SNIPS  THA  T  Pass  in  the  sicht. 

your  doll's  house.  But  even  that  did  not  bring 
you  back.  Nothing  brought  you  back.  That 
was  my  dream.  I  hope  you  are  not  offended. 
Not  that  it  makes  any  difference  if  you  are." 

Bernardino  laughed. 

"  I  am  sorry  that  I  should  have  been  such  an 
unpleasant  playmate,"  she  said,  "  It  was  a 
good  thing  I  did  disappear." 

•  Perhaps  it  was,"  he  said.  "  There  would 
have  been  a  terrible  scene  about  that  doll's  head. 
An  odd  thing  for  me  to  dream  about  Christmas- 
trees  and  dolls  and  playmates  •  especially  when 
I  went  to  sleep  thinking  about  my  new 
camera." 

"  You  have  a  new  camera  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  '  and  a  beauty,  too. 
Would  you  like  to  see  it  ?  " 

She  expressed  a  wish  to  see  it,  and  when  they 
reached  the  Kurhaus,  she  went  with  him  up  to 
his  beautiful  ro.om,  where  he  spent  his  time  in 
the  company  of  his  microscope  and  his  chemical 
bottles  and  his  photographic  possessions. 

"  If  you  sit  down  and  look  at  those  photo- 
graphs, I    will  make  you  some  tea,"  he  said. 


THE  DISAGREEABLE  MA.V  MAKES  A  LOAN.       115 

"  There  is  tlie  camera,  Lut  please  not  to  touch 
it  until  X  am  ready  to  show  it  myself." 

She  watched  him  preparing  the  tea ;  he  did 
everj'^thing  so  daintily,  this  Disa^^reeable  Man. 
He  put  a  handkerchief  on  the  table,  to  serve  for" 
an  afternoon  tea-cloth,  and  a  tiny  vase  of  violets 
formed  the  centre-piece.  He  had  no  cups,  but 
he  polished  up  two  tumblers,  and  no  housemaid 
could  have  been  more  particular  about  their 
frlossiness.    Then  he  boiled  the  water  and  made 

o 

the  tea.  Once  she  offered  to  help  him  ;  but  ho 
shook  his  head. 

"  Kindly  not  to  interfere,"  he  said  grimly. 
"No  one  can  make  tea  better  than  I  can." 

After  tea,  they  began  the  inspection  of  the  new 
camera,  and  Robert  Allitsen  showed  her  all  the 
newest  improvements.  He  did  not  seem  to 
think  much  of  her  intelligence,  for  he  explained 
everything  as  though  he  were  talking  to  a  child, 
until  Bernardino  rather  lost  patience. 

"  You  need  not  enter  into  such  elaborate 
explanations,"  she  suggested.  "  I  have  a  small 
lamount  of  intelligence,  though  you  do  not  seeia 
,tc  detect  it," 


116  SmPS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

He  looked  at  her  as  one  might  look  at 
impatient  child. 

"  Kindly  not  to  •  interrupt  me,"  he  replie 
mildly.  "  How  very  impatient  you  are  !  An 
how  restless  I  What  must  you  have  been  lib 
before  you  fell  ill '? " 

But  he  took  the  hint  all  the  same,  a; 
shortened  his  explanations,  and  as  Bernardi 
was  genuinely  interested,  he  was  well  satisfie; 
From  time  to  time  he  looked  at  his  o' 
camera  and  at  his  companion,  and  from  th5 
expression  of  unease  on  his  face,  it  was 
evident  that  some  contest  was  going  on  in 
his  mind.  Twice  he  stood  near  his  old 
camera,  and  turned  round  to  Bernardine 
intending  to  make  some  remark.  Then  he 
changed  his  mind,  and  walked  abruptly  to 
the  other  end  of  the  room  as  though  to  seek 
advice  from  his  chemical  bottles.  Bernardine 
meanwhile  had  risen  from  her  chair,  and  was 
looking  out  of  the  window. 

"  You  have  a  lovely  view,"  she  said.  "  It 
must  be  nice  to  look  at  that  when  you  are 
tired  of  dissecting  cheese-mites.     All  the  same, 


THE  DISAGREEABLE  MAN  MAKES  A  LOAN       117 

I    think  the  white   scenery  gives  one  a  ■great 
sense  of  sadness  and  loneliness." 

"  Why  do  you  speak  always  of  loneliness?  " 
he  asked, 

"  I  have  been  thinking  a  good  deal  about  it," 
she  said  "  When  I  was  strong  and  vigorous, 
the  idea  of  loneliness  never  entered  my  mind. 
Now  1  see  how  lonely  mDst  pe'ople  are.  If  I 
believed  in  God  as  a  Personal  God,  I  should  be 
inclined  to  think  that  loneliness  were  part  of 
his  scheme  :  so  that  the  soul  of  man  might  turn 
to  him  and  him  alone" 

The  Disagreeable  Man  was  standing  by  his 
amei'a  again  ;  his  decision  was  made. 

'  Don't  think  about  those  questions,"  he  said 
dndly.  "  Don  t  worry  and  fret  too  much  about 
he  philosophy  of  life  Leave  philosophy  alone, 
md  take  to  photography  instead.  Here,  I  will 
end  you  my  old  camera. 

"  Do  you  mean  that '"  she  asked,  glancing 
it  him  in  astonishment. 
"  Of  course  I  mean  it."  he  said. 
He    looked    remarkably    pleased    with    him* 
plf,  and   Bernardme  could  not    help    smiling. 


113  SJ/JPS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIC  J  IT. 

He  looked  just  as  a  child  looks  when  he 
has  given  up  a  toy  to  another  child,  and  is 
conscious  that  he  has  behaved  himself  rather 
well. 

"  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  yoi)„"  she  said 
frankly.  "  I  have  had  a  great  wish  to  learn 
photography." 

"  I  might  have  lent  my  camera  to  you 
before,  mightn't  I  ? "  he  said  thoughtfully. 

"  No,"  slie  answered.  "  There  was  not  any 
reason." 

"  No,"  he  said,  with  a  kind  of  rehcf,  "  there 
was  not  any  reason.     That  is  quite  true." 

*'  When  will  you  give  me  my  first  lesson  ? ' 
she  asked.  "Perhaps,  though,  you  would  like 
to  wait  a  few  days,  in  case  you  change  your 
mind." 

•'It  takes  me  some  time  to  make  up  my 
mind,"  he  replied;  "but  I  do  not  change  it. 
So  I  will  give  you  your  first  lesson  to-morrow, 
Only  you  must  not  be  impatient.  You  must 
consent  to  be  taught ;  you  cannot  possibly  know 
everything  !  " 

They    fixed   a   time  for    the    morrow,   and 


THE  DISAGREEABLE  MAN  MAKES  A  LOAN.       119. 

Bernardine  went  off  with  the  camera ;  and 
meetin^)^  Marie  on  the  staircase,  condded  to  her- 
the  piece  of  good  fortune  which  had  befallen  her' 

"  See  what  Herr  AUitsen  lias .  leat  me, 
Marie  !  "  she  said. 

Marie  raised  her  hands  in  astonishment. 
'  Who   would    have    thou<rht    such    a   thinff 
of  Herr  AUitsen  ?  "  said  Marie.    "  Wfiy,  he  does 
not  like  leoiding  me  a  match.'" 

Bernardine  laughed  and  passed  on  to  her  room. 

And  the  Disagreeable  Man  meanwhile  was 
cutting  a  new  scientific  book  which  had  just 
come  from  England.  He  spent  a  guod  deal  of 
money  on  himself.  He  was  soon  absorbed  iii 
this  book,  and  much  mlerested  in  the  diagrams. 

Suddenly  he  looked  up.  to  the  corner  where 
the  old  camera  had  stood,  before  Bernardine 
took  it  away  in  trimnph. 

"  I  hope  she  won't  hurt  that  camera,"  he  said 
a  little  uneasily.     "  I  am  half  sorry  that  " 

Then  a  kinder  mood  took  possession  of  him. 

"  Well;  at  least  it  will  keep  her  from  fussing- 
and  fretting  and  thiiiking  Still,  I  hope  ^he 
won't  hurt  it." 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

A  DOMESTIC  SCEira. 

One  afternoon  when  Mrs.  Reffold  came  to  soy 
good-bye  to  her  husband  before  going  out  for 
the  usual  sledge-drive,  he  surprised  her  by  his 
unwonted  manner. 

''Take  your  cloak  off,"  he  said  sharply. 
"  You  cannot  go  for  your  drive  this  afternoon. 
You  don't  often  give  up  your  time  to  me  ;  you 
must  do  so  to-day." 

She  was  so  astonished,  that  she  at  once  laid 
aside  her  cloak  and  hat,  and  touched  the  bell. 

"  Why  are  you  ringing  ? "  Mr.  Reffold  asked 
testily. 

"  To  send  a  message  of  excuse,"  she  answered, 
with  provoking  cheerfulness. 


A  DOMESTIC  SCENE.  121 

She  scribbled  something  on  a  card,  and  ^ave 
it  to  the  servant  who  answered  the  bell. 

"  Now,"  she  said,  with  great  sweetness  of 
manner.  And  shft  sat  down  beside  him,  drew 
out  her  fancy  work,  and  worked  away  con- 
tentedly. She  would  have  made  a  charming 
study  of  a  devoted -wife  soothing  a  much-loved 
husband  in  his  hours  of  stckness  and  weariness. 

"Do  you  mind  giving  up  your  drive  ?"  Jie 
asked. 

"  Not  in  the  least,"  she  replied.  "  i  am 
rather  tired  of  sledging." 

"  You  soon  get  tired  of  things,  Winifred,"  he 
said. 

"  Yes,  I  do,"  was  the  answer.  "  I  am  so 
easily  bored.     I  am  quite  tired  of  this  place." 

"  You  will  have  to  stay  here  a  little  longer," 
he  said,  "  and  then  you  will  be  iv^a  to  go 
where  you  choose.  I  wish  I  could  die  quicker 
for  you,  Winifred." 

Mrs.  Reffold  looked  up  from  her  embroidery. 

"  You  will  get  better  soon,"  she  said.  "  You 
are  better." 

"  Yes,  you've  helped  a  good  deal  to  make  roe 


122  SHIPS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIC  I  IT. 

better,"  he  said  bitterly  "  You  have  been  a 
most  unselfish  person,  haven't  you  ?  You  liave 
given  me  every  care  and  attention,  haven't 
you  ? " 

"  You  seem  to  me  in  a  very  strange  mood 
to-day,"  she  said,  looking  puzzled,  "  I  don't 
understand  you." 

Mr.  Reffold  laughed. 

"Poor  \Vinifred,"  he  said..  "If  it  is  ever 
your  lot  to  fall  ill  and  be  neglected,  perhaps 
then  you  will  think  of  me." 

"  Neglected  ?  "  she  said,  in  some  surprise. 
"  What  do  you  meaii  ?  I  thought'^  you  had 
everything  you  wanted.  The  nurse  brought 
excellent  testimonials.  I  was  Oareful  in  tlie 
choice  of  her.  You  have  never  complained 
before." 

He  turned  wearily  on  his  side,  and  made  no 
answer.      And  for  some  time  there  was  silence  : 
between  them.      Then  he  watched  her  as  she  '■ 
bent  over  her  embroidery  J 

"  You  are  very  beautiful,  Winifred,"  he 
said  quietly,  "  but  you  are  a  selfish  woman. 
Has  it  ever  struck  you  that  you  are  selfish  ? " 


A  DOMESTIC  SCENE.  123 

Mrs.  RefFold  gave  no  reply,  but  she  made  a 
resolution  to  write  to  her  particular  friend  at 
Cannes  and  confide  to  her  how  very  trying  her 
husband  had  become. 

"  I  suppose  it  is  part  of  his  illness,"  she 
thought  meekly.  "  But  it  is  hard  to  have  to 
bear  it." 

And  Mrs.  Reffold  pitied  herself  profoundly. 
She  stitched  sincere  pity  for  herself  into  that 
piece  of  embroidery. 

"■'  1  remember  you  telling  me,"  continued  Mx\ 
Reflbld.  "  that  sick  people  repelled  you.  "  That 
was  when  I  was  strong  and  vigorous.  But 
since  I  have  been  ill,  I  have  often  recalled  your 
words.  Poor  Winifred !  You  did  not  think 
then  tliat  you  would  have  an  uivalid  husband 
on  your  hands.  Well,  you  were  not  intended 
for  sick-room  nursing,  and  you  have  not  tried 
to  be  what  you  were  not  intended  for. 
Perhaps  you  were  right,  after  all." 

"  I  don't  know  why  you  should  be  so  unkind 
to-day,"  Mrs.  Eeffold  said,  with  pathetic 
patience.  "  I  can't  understand  you.  You  have 
never  spoken  like  this  before." 


124  SIf/PS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

"  No,"  he  said  ;  "  but  I  Lave  thought  hke  this 
before.  All  the  hours  you  have  left  me  lonely, 
I  have  been  thinking  like  this,  with  my  heart 
full  of  bitterness  against  you,  until  that  little 
girl,  that  Little  Brick  came  along." 

After  that,  it  was  some  time  before  he  spoke. 
He  was  thinking  of  his  Little  Brick,  and  of 
all  the  pleasant  hours  he  had  spent  with  her, 
and  of  the  kind,  wise  words  she  had  spoken  to 
him,  an  ignorant  fellow  She  was  something 
like  a  companion. 

So  he  went  on  thinking,  and  Mrs.  Reffold 
went  on  embroidering.  She  was  now  feeling 
herself  to  be  almost  a  heroine.  It  is  a  very 
easy  matter  to  make  oneself  into  a  heroine  or 
a  martyr  Selfish,  neglectful  ?  What  did  he 
mean  ?  Oh,  it  was  just  part  of  his  illness.  She 
must  go  on  bearing  her  burden  as  she  had 
borne  it  thei:.e  many  months.  Her  rightful 
position  wns  in  a  London  ball-room.  Instead 
of  which,  she  had  to  be  ;shut  up  in  an  Alpine 
village  a  hard  lot.  It  was  little  enough 
pleasure  she  could  get,  and  apparently  her 
husband  grudged  her  that.     His  manner  to  her 


A  DOMESTIC  SCENB.  IM 

this  afternoon  was  not  such  as  to  encourage 
her  to  stay  in  from  her  drive  on  another 
occasion.     To-morrow  she  would  go  sledging. 

That  flash  of  light  which  reveals  ourselves 
to  ourselves  had  not  yet  come  to  Mrs. 
Reffold. 

She  looked  at  her  husband,  and  thought  from 
his  restfulness  that  he  had  gone  to  sleep,  and 
she  was  just  beginning  to  write  to  that 
particular  friend  at  Cannes,  to  tell  her  what  a 
trial  she  was  undergoing,  when  Mr.  Reffold 
called  her  to  his  side. 

•'  Winifred,"  he  said  gently  and  there  was 
tenderness  in  his  voice,  and  love  written  on  hi& 
face,  "  Winifred,  I  am  sorry  if  I  have  been 
sharp  to  you.  Little  Brick  says  we  mustn't 
come  down  like  sledge-hammers  on  each  other ; 
and  that  is  what  I  have  -been  doing  this 
afternoon.  Perhaps  I  have  been  hard  :  I  am 
such  an  illness  to  myself,  that  I  must  be  an 
illness  to  others  too.  And  you  weren't  meant 
for  this  sort  of  thing — were  you  ?  You  are  a 
bright  beautiful  creature,  and  I  am  an  unfor- 
tunate dog  not  to  have  been  able  to  mnke  you 


128  SmrS  THA  T  PASS  Itt  THE  NIGHT. 

happier.     F  know  I  am  irritable.     I  can't  help 
myself,  indeed  1  can't." 

This  great  long  fellow  was  so  yearning  for" 
love  and  synrpathy. 

What  would  it  not  have  been  to  him  i/  she 
had  jrathered  him  into  her  arms,  arid  soothed  all 
his  irritability  and  suffering  with  her  love  ? 

But  she  pressed  his  hand,  and  kissed  him 
lightly  on  the  cheek,  and  told  him  that  he  had 
been  a  little  sharp,  but  that  she  quite  under 
stood  and  that  she  was  not  hurt.  Her  charm 
of  manner  gave  him  some  satisfaction ;  and 
when  Bernardme  came  in  a  few  minutes  later, 
she  found  Mr  Reflfold  looking  happier  and  more 
contented  than  she  had  ever  seen  him.  Mrs.. 
Reffoid,  who  was  relieved  at  the  interruption, 
received  Bernardine  warmly,  though  there  was 
a  cert  am  amount  of  shyness  which  she  had 
never  been  able  to  conquer  in  Bernardine's 
presence.  There  was  something  in  the  younger 
woman  which  quelled  Mrs.  Rcffold  :  it  may  have 
been  some  mental  quality,  or  it  may  have  been 
her  boots ! 

"  Little  Brick,"  said   Mr.  Heffold,  "  isn't  it 


A  DOMESTIC  SCENE.  127 

nice  to  have  Winifred  here?  And  I  have  been 
so  disagreeable  and  snappish." 

"  Oh,  we  won't  say  anything  about  that  now." 
said  Mrs.  RefFold,  smiling  sweetly. 

"  But  I've  said  I  am  sorry, '  he  continued. 
"  And  one  can  t  do  more." 

"  No,"  said  Bernardino,  who  was  amused  at 
the  notion  of  Mr  Reffold  apologizing  to  Mrs. 
Reffold,  and  of  Mrs.  Reffold  posing  as  the 
gracious  forgiver,  "one  can't  do  more"  But 
she»  could '  not  control  her  feelings,  and  she 
laughed. 

"  You  seem  rather  merry  this  afternoon,'* 
Mr  Reffold  said,  in  a  reproachful  tone  of 
voice. 

.  "  Yes,"  she  said.  And  she  laughed  again. 
Mrs.  Reffold's  forgiving  graciousness  had 
altogether  upset  her  gravity. 

"  You  might  at 'least  tell 'US  the  joke."  Mrs. 
Reffold  said. 

Betnardine  Ioo*ked  at  her  hopelessly.  •  and 
laughed  again. 

**  I  have  been  developing  photographs  'all  the 
Bftemoon/'  she  said,  "  and  I  suppose  the  close- 


128  SJ/IPS  THA  T  PASS  IN  FffE  NIGHT. 

ness  of  the  air  and  the  badness  of  my  neo^atives 
have  been  too  much  for  me.  Anyway,  I  know  I 
must  seem  very  rude." 

She  recovered  herself  after  that,  and  tried 
hard  not  to  thmk  of  Mrs.  Reffbld  as  the 
dispenser  of  forgiveness,  ;ilthough_  it  was  some 
time  before  she  could  look  at  her  hostess  v\?thout 
wishuig  to  iaugh.  The  corners  of  her  mouth 
twitched,  and  her  brown  eyes  twinkled  mis- 
chievously, and  she  spoke  very  rapidly,  making 
fun  of  her  first  attempts  at  photography,  and 
criticising  herself  so  comically,  that  both  Mr. 
and  Mrs-  Reffold  were  much  amused. 

All  the  same,  Bernardino  was  relieved  when 
Mrs.  Reffold  went  to  fetch  some  silks,  and  left 
her  with  Mr   Reffold 

'  I  am  very  happy  this  afternoon,  Little  Brick," 
he  said  to  her  "  My  wife  has  been  sitting  with 
me  But  instead  of  enjoying  the  pleasure  as  I 
ought  to  have  done,  I  began  to  find,  fault  with 
her  I  don't  know  how  long  I  should  not  have 
gone  on  grumbling,  but  that  I  suddenly 
recollected  what  you  (aught  me  that  we  wero 
not  to  come  down  like  sledire-hommers  on  each' 


/»  DOMESTIC  SCENE.  129 

other's  failings.  When  I  remembeied  that,  it 
•was  quite  easy  to  forgive  all  the  neglect  and 
thoughtlessness.  Since  you  have  talked  to  me, 
Little  Brick,  everything  has  become  easier  to 
me." 

"It  is  something  in  your  own  mind  which 
has  worked  this,"  she  said  ;  "your  own  kind, 
generous  mind,  and  you  put  it  dovyn  to  ray 
words." 

But  he  shook  his  head, 

"  If  I  knew  of  any  poor  unfortunate  devil 
that  wanted  to  be  eased  and  comforted,"  he  said, 
*'  I  should  tell  him  about  you,  Little  Brick.  You 
have  been  very  good  to  me.  You  may  be  clever, 
but 'you  have  never  worried  my  stupid  brain 
with  too  much  scholarship.  I'm  just  an  ignorant 
chap,  and  you  ve  never  let  me  feel  it." 

He  took  her  hand  and  raised  it  reverently  ta 
his  lips. 

"  I  say,"  he  continued,  "  tell  my  wife  it  made 
me  happy  to  have  her  with  me  this  afternoon ; 
then  perhaps  she  will  stay  in  another  time.  I 
ghould  like  her  to  know.  And  she  was  sweet 
in  her  manner  wasn't  ehe  ?     And,  by  Jove,  she 

K 


130  SHIPS  THA  T  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

is  beautiful !  I  am  glad  you  have  seen  her. here 
to-day.  It  must  be  dull  for  her  with  an  invalid 
like  me.  And  I  know  I  am  irritable.  Go  and 
tell  her  that  she  made  me  happy — will  you  ? " 

The  little  bit  of  happiness  at  which  the  poor 
fellow  snatched,  seemed  to  make  him  more 
pathetic  than  before.  Bernardino  promised  to 
tell  his  wife,  and  went  off  to  find  her,  making 
as  an  excuse  a  book  w^hich  Mrs.  Eeffold  had 
offered  to  lend  her,  Mrs,  Eeffold  was  in  her 
bedroom.  She  asked  Eernardine  to  sit  down 
whilst  she  searched  for  the  book.  She  had  a 
very  gracious  manner  when  she  chose. 

"  You  are  looking  much  better,  Miss  Holme," 
she  said  kindly,  "  I  cannot  help  noticing  your 
face.  It  looks  younger  and  brighter.  The 
bracing  air  has  done  you  good." 

"  Yes,  I  am  better,"  Eernardine  said,  ratlier 
astonished  that  Mrs.  Eeffold  should  -have 
noticed  her  at  all.  "  Mr.  Allitsen  informs  me 
that  I  shall  live,  but  never  be  strong.  He 
settles  every  question  of  that  sort  to  his  own 
satisflxction,  but  not  always  to  the  satisfaction 
of  other  people  !  " 


A  DOMESTIC  SCENE.  ISl 

"  He  is  a  curious  person,"  Mrs.  Reffold  said, 
smiling  ;  "  though  1  must  say  he  is  not  quite  as 
gruff  as  he  used  to  be.  You  seem  to  be  good 
friends  with  him." 

She  would  have  liked  to  say  more  on  this 
subject,  but    experience    had  taught   her  that 
♦   Bernardlne  was  not  to  be  trifled  with. 

*"'!  don't  know  about  being  good  friends," 
Bernardine  said,  "  but  I  have  a  great  sympathy 
for  him.  I  know  myself  what  it  is  to  be  cut  oil 
from  v/ork  and  active  life.  I  have  been 
through  a  misery.  But  mine  is  nothing  to 
his." 

She  rose  to  go,  but  Mrs.  Reffold  detained 
her. 

"  Don't  go  yet,"  she  said.  "  It  is  pleasant  to 
have,  you," 

She  was  leaning  back  in  an  arm-chair,  play- 
iiig  with  the  fringe  of  an  antimacassar. 

"  Oh,  how  tired  I  am  of  this  horrid  place  !  " 
she  said  suddenly.  "  And  I  have  had  a  most 
wearying  afternoon.  Mr.  Reffold  seems  to  be 
more  irritable  ev^ry  day.  It  is  very  hard 
tliat  T  should  have  to  bear  it." 

K  2 


132  Sff/PS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

Bernardine  listened  to  her  in  astonishment. 

"  Yes,"^  she  added,  "  I  am  quite  wdrn  out. 
He  never  used  to  be  so  irritable.  It  is  all  very 
tiresome.     It  is  quite  telling  on  my  health." 

She  looked  the  picture  of  health. 

Bernardine  gasped ;  and  Mrs.  Eeffbld 
continued  : 

"  His  grumbling  this  afternoon  has  been 
incessant ;  so  much  so  that  he  himself  was 
ashamed,  and  asked  me  to  forgive  him.  You 
heard  him,  didn't  you  ? " 

"  Yes,  I  heo.rd  him,"  Bernardine  said. 

"And  of  course  I  foi'gave  him  at  once,"  Mrs. 
Beffold  said  piously.  "  Naturally  one  woul^ 
do  that,  but  the  vexation  remains  all  tlie 
same." 

"  Can  these  things  be  ?"  thought  Bernardine 
to  herself 

"  He  spoke  in  a  most  ridiculous  way,''  she 
went  on  :  "  it  certainly  is  not  encouraging  for 
me  to  spend  anotiier  afternoon  with  him.  I 
shall  go  sledcjing  to-moirow." 

"  You  generally  do  go  sledging,  don't  you  ?" 
Bernardine  asked  mildly. 


A  DOMESTIC  SCENE.  W3 

Mrs.  Reffold  looked  at  her  suspiciously.  She 
was  never  quite  sure  that  Bernardlne  was  not 
making-  fun  of  her. 

'It  is  little  enough  pleasure  I  do  have,"  she 
added,  as  though  in  self-defence.  "And  he 
seems  to  "-rudrre  me  that  too." 

"  I  don't  think  he  would  grudge  you  any- 
thing," Bernardine  said,  with  some  warmth. 
*  He  loves  you  too  much  for  that.  You  don't 
know  how  much  pleasure  you  give  him  when 
ybu  spare  him  a  little  of  your  time.  He  told 
me  how  happy  you  made  him  this  afternoon. 
You  could  see  for  yourself  that  he  was  happy. 
Mrs.  Reffold,  make  him  happy  whilst  you  still 
have  hini.  Don't  you  understand  that  he  is 
passing  away  from  you — don't  you  understand, 
or  is  it  that  you  ivon't  ?  We  all  see  it,  all 
except  you  1 " 

She  stopped  suddenly,  surprised  af  her  bold- 
ness.- - 

Mrs.  Reffold  wasj  still  leaning  back  in  the 
arm-chair,  her  hands  clasped  together  above 
her  beautiful  head.  Her  face  was  pale.  She 
did    not     speak.      Bernardine    waited.      The 


i34  SHIPS  THA  T  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

silence  was  unbroken  save  by  the  merry  cries 
of  some  children  tobogganing  in  the  Kurhaus 
garden.  The  stillness  grew  oppressive,  and 
Bernardine  rose.  She  knew  from  the  effort 
which  those  few  words  had  cost  her,  how  far 
removed  she  was  from  her  old  former  self. 

"Good-bye,       Mrs.      Reffold,"      she      said 
nervously. 

'  Good-bye,    Miss    Holme,"    was    the  only 
answer. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

CONCEENING   THE   CARETAKEllS. 

The  Doctors  in  Petershof  always  said  that  the 
caretakers  of  the  invalids  were  a  much  greater 
anxiety  than  the  invalids  themselves.  The 
invalids  would  either  get  better  or  die  :  one  of 
two  things  probably.  At  any  rate,  you  knew 
where  you  were  with  them.  But  not  so  with 
the  caretaker's  :  there  was  nothing  they  were 
not  capable  of  doing — except  taking  reasonable 
care  of  their  invalids !  They  either  fussed 
about  too  much,  or  else  they  did  not  fuss  about 
at  all.  They  all  began  by  doing  the  right 
thing :  they  all  ended  by  doing  the  wrong. 
The  fussy  ones  had  fits  of  apathy,  when  the 
poor  irritable  patients  seemed  to  get  a  little 


136  SHIPS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

better ;  the  negligent  ones  had  paroxysms  of 
attentiveness,  when  their  invahds,  accustomed 
to  loneliness  and  neglect,  seemed  to  become 
rather  worse  by  being  worried. 

To  retoonstrate  with  the  caretakers  would 
have  been  folly  :  for  they  were  well  satisfied 
with  their  own  methods. 

To  contrive  their  departure  would  have  been 
an  iuipossibility  :  for  they  were  firmly  con- 
vinced that  their  presence  was  necessary  to  the 
welfare  of  their  charges.  And  then,  too,  judg- 
ing from  the  way  in  which  they  managed  to 
amuse  themselves,  they  liked  being  in  Petei'S- 
hof,  though  they  never  owned  that  to  the 
invalids.  On  the  contrary,  it  was  the  custom 
for  the  caretakers  to  depreciate  the  place,  and 
to  deplore  the  necessity  wliich  obliged  them  to 
continue  there  month  after  month.  They  were 
fond,  too,  of  talking  about  the  sacrifices  which 
they  made,  and  the  pleasures  which  they 
willingly  gave  up  in  order  to  stay  with  their 
invalids.  They  said  this  in  the  presence  of  ; 
their  invalids.  And  if  the  latter  had  told 
them  by  all  means  to  pack  up  and  go  back  to 


CONCERNING  THE  CARETAKERS.  Wi 

the  pleasures  which  they  had  renounced,  they 
would  have  been  astonished  at  the  innratitude 
which  could  su2:<rest  the  idea. 

They  were  amusing  characters,  these  care- 
takers. They  were  so  thoroughly  unconscious 
of  their  own  deficiencies.  They  might  neglect 
their  own  invalids,  but  they  would  look  after 
other  people's  invalids,  and  play  the  nurse  most 
soothingly  and  prettily  where  there  was  no 
call  and  no  occasion.  Then  they  would  come 
and  relate  to  their  neglected  dear  ones  what 
they  had  been  doing  for  others :  and  the  dear 
ones  would  smile  quietly,  and  watch  the 
buttons  being  stitched  on  for  strangers,  and 
the  cornflour  which  they  could  not  get  nicely 
made  for  themselves,  being  carefully  prepared 
for  other  people's  neglected  dear  ones. 

Some  of  the  dear  ones  were  rather  bitter. 
But  there  were  inany  of  a  higher  order  of 
intelligence,  who  seemed  to  realize  that  they 
had  no  right  to  be  ill,  and  that  being  ill,  and 
therefore  a  burden  on  their  friends,  they  must 
make  the  best  of  everything,  and  be  grateful 
for    what    was  given  them,  and  patient  when 


mS  SHIPS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  N/OHT. 

anything  was  withheld.  Others  of  a  still 
higher  order  of-  understanding,  attributed  the 
eccentricities  of  the  caretakers  to  one  cause 
alone  the  Petershof  air.  They  knev.'  it  had 
the  invariable  effect  of  getting  into  the  hcad» 
and  upsetting  the  balance  of  those  who  drank 
deep  of  it.  Therefore  no  one  was  to  blame,  and 
no  one  need  be  bitter.  But  these  were  the 
philosophers  of  the  colony  a  select  and  dainty 
few  in  any  colony.  But  there  were  several 
rebels  amongst  the  uivalids,  and  they  found 
consolation  in  confiding  to  each  other  their 
separate  grievances.  They  generally  held  their 
conferences  in  the  rooms  known  as  the  news- 
paper-rooms, where  they  were  not  likely  to  be 
interrupted  by  any  caretakers  who  might 
have  stayed  at  home  because  they  were  tired 
out. 

Torday  there  were  only  a  few  rebels  gathered 
together,  but  they  were  more  than  usually 
excited,  because  the  Doctors  had  told  several  of 
them  that  their  respective  caretakers  must  be 
sent  home. 

"What    must    I    do?"    said    little    Mdlle. 


CONCERNIi^G  THE  CARETAKERS.  139 

Gerardy,  wrino-ing  her  hands.  "  The  Doctor 
says  that  I  must  tell  my  sister  to  go  home  • 
that  she  only  worries  me,  and  makes  me  worse. 
He  calls  her  a  '  whirlwind.'  If  I  won't  tell 
her,  then  he  will  tell  her,  and  we  shall  have 
some  more  scenes.  Mon  Dieu  !  and  T  am  so  tired 
of  them.  They  terrify  me.  I  would  suffer 
anything  rather  than  have  a  fresh  scene.  And 
I  can't  get  her  to  do  anything  for  me.  She 
has  no  time  for  me.  And  yet  she  thinks  she 
takes  the  greatest  possible  care  of  me,  and 
devotes  the  whole  day  to  me.  Why,  sometimes 
I  never  see  her  for  hours  together." 

"Well,  at  least  she  does  not  quarrel  with 
every  one,  as  my  mother  does,"  said  a  Polish 
gentleman,  M.  Lichinsky.  "  Nearly  every  day 
she  has  a  quarrel  with  some  one  or  other ;  and 
then  she  comes  to  me  and  says  she  has  'been 
insulted.  And  others  come  to  me  mad  with 
rage,  and  complain  that  they  have  been  in 
suited  by  her.  As  though  I  were  to  blame  !  I  tell 
them  that  now.  I  tell  them  that  my  mother's 
quarrels  are  not  my  quarrels.  But  one  longs 
for  peace.      And  the  Doctor  says  I  must  have 


140  SHIPS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

It,  and  that  my  mother  must  gc  iiome  at  one©. 
If  I  tell  her  that,  she  will  have  a  tremendous 
quarrel  with  the  Doctor.  As  It  is,  he  will 
scarcely  speak  to  her.  So  you  see,  Made- 
moiselle Gerardy,  that  I,  too,  am  in  a  bad  plight. 
What  am  I  to  do  ?  " 

Then  a  young  American  spoke.  '  He  had 
been  getting  gradually  worse  since  he  came  to 
Petershof,  but  his  brother,  a  bright  sturdy 
young  fellow,  seemed  quite  unconscious  of  the 
Beriousness  of  his  condition. 

"  And  what  am  I  to  do  ?  "  he  asked  patheti- 
cally. "  My  brother  does  not  even  think  I  am 
iJl.  He  says  I  am  to  rouse  myself  and  come 
skating  and  tobogganing  with  him.  Then  I 
tell  him  that  the  Doctor  s*iys  I  must  lie  quietly 
in  the  sun.  I  have  no  one  to  take  care  of  me, 
so  I  try  to  take  a  little  care  of  myself,  and  then 
I  am  laughed  at.  It  Is  bad  enough  to  be  ill  ; 
but  it  is  worse  when  those  who  might  help  you 
a  little,  won't  even  believe  in  your  illness.  I 
wrote  home  once  and  told  them  ;  but  th(jy  go 
by  what  he  says ;  and  they,  too,  tell  me  to  rouse 
myself." 


CONCERNING  THE  CARETAKERS.  141 

His  cheeks  were  sunken,  his  eyes  were  leaden. 
There  was  no  power  in  his  voice,  no  vigour  in 
his  frame.  He  was  just  sh'pping  quickly  down 
the  hill  for  'want  of  proper  care  and  under- 
standing 

"  I  don't  know  whether  I  am  much  better  oft 
than  you,"  sai(J  an  English  lady,  Mrs.  Bridge- 
tower.  "  I  certainly  have  a  trained  nurse  to 
look  after  me,  but  she  is  altogether  too  nluch  for 
me,  and  sh^  does  just  as  she  pleases.  She  is 
always  aiHng,  or  else  pretends  to  be  ;  and  she 
is  always  depressed.  She  grumbles  from  eight  in 
the  morning  till  nine  at  night.  I  h^ve  heard  that 
she  is  cheerful  with  other  people,  bnt  she  never 
gives  me  the  benefit  of  her  brightness.  Poor 
thing  !  She  does  feel  the  cold  very  much,  but  it 
is  not  very  cheering  to  see  her  crouching  near 
the  stove,  with  her  arms  almost  clasping  it ! 
When  she  is  not  talking  of  her  own  looks,  all 
she  says  is  :  '  Oh,  if  I  had  only  not  come  to 
Petershof!'  or,  'Why  did  I  ever  leave  that 
hospital  in  Manchester  ? '  or  '  The  cold  is 
eating  into  the  very  marrow  of  my  bones.'  At 
tirst  she  used  to  read  to  nie ;  but  it  was  snch  a 


142  .    SHIPS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

dismal  performance  that  I  could  not  bear  to  hear 
her.  Why  don't  I  send  her  home  j  Well,  my 
husband  will  not  hear  of  me  being  alone,  and 
he  thinks  I  might  do  worse  than  keep  Nurse 
Frances.     And  perhaps  I  might." 

"  I  would  give  a  good  deal  to  have  a  sister 
like  pretty  Fraulein  Mliller  has,"  said  little 
Friiulein  Oberhof.  "  She  came  to  look  after  me 
the  other  day  when  I  was  alone.  She  has 
the  kindest  way  about  her.  But  when  uiy 
sister  came  in.  she  was  not  pleased  to  find 
Friiulein  Sophie  Mliller  with  me.  She  does  not 
do  anything  for  me  herself,  and  she  does  not 
like  any  one  else  to  do  anything  either.  Still, 
she  is  very  good  to  other  people.  She  comes 
up  from  the  theatre  sometimes  at  half-past  nine 
— that  is  the  hour  when  I  am  just  sleepy — and 
tshe  stamps  about  tlie  room,  and  makes  corn- 
flour for  the  old  Polish  lady.  Then  off  she  goes, 
taking  with  her  the  cornflour  together  with  my 
sleep.  Once  I  complained,  but  she  said  I  was 
irritable.  You  can't  think  how  teasing  it  is  to 
hear  the  noise  of  the  spoon  stirring  the  corn- 
flour just  when  you  are  fccHng  drowsy.     You 


CONCERNING  THE  CARETAKERS.  H3 

say  to  ycurself,  '  Will  that  cornflour  never  be 
made  ?     It  seems  to  take  centuries.'  " 

"  One  could  be  more  patient  if  it  were  being 
made  for  oneself,"  said  M.  Lichinsky.  "But 
at  least,  Frauleia,  your  sister  does  not  quarrel 
with  every  one.  You  must  be  grateful  for 
that  mercy." 

Even  as  he  spoke,  a  stout  lady  thrust  herself 
into,  the  reading-room.  She  looked  very  hot 
and  excited.  She  was  M.  Lichinsky 's  mother. 
She  spoke  with  a  whirlwind  of  Polish  words. 
It  is  sometimes  difficult  to  know  when  these 
people  are  angry  and  when  they  are  pleased. 
But  there  was  no  mistake  about  Mme. 
Lichinsky.  She  was  always  angry.  Her  son 
rose  from  the  sofa,  and  followed  her  to  the  door 
Then  he  turned  round  to  his  confederates,  anrj 
shrugged  his  shoulJer.i. 

"Another  quarrel !"  Le  said  hopelessly. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

WHICH  CONTAINS    NOTHING. 

■'*  You  may  have  talent  for  other  things,* 
Robert  AJlitsen  said  one  day  to  Bernardino, 
"  but  you  certainly  have  no  talent  for  photo- 
graphy. You  •  have  not  made  the  slightest 
progress." 

'I  don't  at  all  agree  with  you,"  Bernardino 
answered  rather  peevishly.  ■ "  I  think  I  am 
getting  on  very  well," 

"You  are  no  judge,"  he  said.  "To  begin 
with,  you  cannot  focus  properly.  You  have  a 
crooked  eye.  I  have  told  you  that  several 
times." 

"  You  certainly  have,"  she  put  in.  "You 
don't  let  me  forget  that," 


WHICH  CONTAINS  NOTHING.  145 

"Your  photograph  of  that  horrid  little 
daiiseuse  whom  you  like  so  much,"  he  said, 
"  is  simply  abominable.  She  looks  like  a  fury 
Well,  she  may  be  one  for  all  I  know,  but  in 
real  life  she  has  not  the  appearance  of  one." 

"  I  think  that  is  the  bcbt  photograph  I  have 
done,"  Bernardine  said,  hig'bly  indignant.  She 
could  tolerate  his  uppishness  about  subjects 
of  which  she  knew  far  more  than,  he  did  : 
but  his  masterfulness  about  a  subject  of  which 
she  really  knew  nothing  was  more  than  she 
could  bear  with  patience.  He  had  not  the  tact 
to  see  that  she  was  irritated. 

"  I  don't  know  about  it  being  the  best,"  he 
said;  "unless  it  is  the  best  specimen  of  your 
inexperience.  Looked  at  from  that  point  of 
view,  it  does  stand  first." 

She  flushed  crimson  with  temper. 

"  Nothing  is  easier  than  to  make  fun  of 
others,"  she  said  fiercely.  "  It  is  the  resource 
of  the  ignorant." 

Then,  after  the  fashion  of  angry  women, 
having  said  her  say,  she  stalked  away.  If  there 
had  been  a  door  to  bang,  she  would  certainly 


146  SHIPS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

have  banged  it.  However,  she  did  what 
she  could  under  the  circumstances  :  she  pushed 
a  curtain  roughly  aside,  and  passed  into 
the  concert-room,  vdiere  every  night  of 
the  season's  six  months,  a  scratchy  string 
orchestra  entertained  the  Kurhaus  guests. 
She  left  the  Disagreeable  Man  standing  in  the 
passage. 

"  Dear  me,"  he  said  thoughtfully.  And  he 
stroked  his  chin.  Then  he  ti"udged  slowly  up 
to  his  room. 

"  Dear  me,"  he  said  once  more. 

Arrived  in  his  bedroom,  he  began  to  read. 
But  after  a  few  minutes  he  shut  his  book,  took 
the  lamp  to  the  looking-glass  and  brushed  his 
hair.  Then  he  put  on  a  black  coat  and  a  white 
silk  tie.  There  was  a  speck  of  dust  on  tire  coat. 
He  carefully  removed  that,  and  then  extin- 
guished the  lamp. 

On  his  way  downstairs  he  met  Mai'le,  wb.o 
gazed  at  him  in  astonishment.  It  was  qui  to 
unusual  for  him  to  be  seen  again  when  he  had 
once  come  up  from  iabh-dliotc.  She  noticed 
the  black  coat  and  the  white  silk  tie  too,  and 


WHICH  CONTAINS  NOTHING.  147 

reported  on  these  eccentricities  to  her  colleaguG 
Anna. 

The  Disagreeable  Man  meanwhile  had 
reached  the  Concert  Hall.  He  glanced  around, 
and  saw  where  Bernardlne  was  sitting,  and 
then  chose  a  place  in  the  opposite  direction, 
quite  by  himself.  He  looked  somewhat  like  a 
dog  who  has  been  well  beaten.  Now  and  again 
he  looked  up  to  see  whether  she  still  kept  her 
seat.  The  bad  music  was  a  great  Irritation  to 
him.  But  he  stayed  on  heroically.  There  was 
no  reason  why  he  should  stay.  Gradually,  too, 
the  audience  began  to  thin.  Still  he  lingered, 
always  looking  like  a  dog  in  punishment. 

At  last  Bernardino  rose,  and  the  Disagreeable 
Man  rose  too.  He  followed  her  humbly  to  the 
door.     She  turned  and  saw  him. 

"  I  am  sorry  I  put  you  In  a  bad  temper,"  he 
said.     "It  was  stupid  of  me." 

"  I  -am  sorry  I  got  Into  a  bad  temper,"  she 
answered,  laughing.     "  It  was  stupid  of  me." 

"  I  think  I  have  said  enough  to  apologize, 
he  said.      '*  It    is    a  process   I .  dislike  very 
much." 


148  SHIPS  7 II A T  PASS  IN  THE  N.GUT. 

And  with  that  he  wished  her  good-night  and 
went  to  his  room. 

But  that  was  not  the  end  of  the  matter,  for 
the  next  day  when  he  was  taking  his  breakfast 
with  her,  he  of  his  own  accord  returned  to  the 
subject. 

"  It  was  partly  your  own  fault  that  I  vexed 
you  last  night,"  he  said.  "You  have  never 
before  been  touchy,  and  so  I  have  become 
accustomed  to  saying  what  I  choose.  And  it  ia 
not  in  my  nature  to  be  flattering." 

"  That  is  a  veiy  truthful  statement  of  yours," 
she  said,  as  she  poured  out  her  coflee.  "  But  I 
own  I  was  touchy.  And  so  I  shall  be  again 
if  you  make  such  cutting  remarks  about  my 
photographs." 

"  You  have  a  crooked  eye,"  he  said  grimly. 
"  Look  there,  for  instance  !  You  have  poured 
your  coffee  outside  the  cup.  Of  course  you  can 
do  as  you  like,  but  the  usual  custom  is  to  pour 
it  inside  the  cup." 

They  both  laughed,  and  the  good  under- 
Btanding  between  them  was  cemented  again. 

"  You  are  certainly  getting  better,"  he  said 


WHICH  CONTAINS  NOTHING.  149 

Buddenly.  "  I  should  not  be  surprised  if  you 
Avere  able  to  write  a  book  after  all.  Not  that  a 
new  book  is  wanted.  There  are  too  many 
books  as  it  is  ;  and  not  enough  people  to  dust 
them.  Still,  it  is  not  probable  that  you  v/ould 
be  considerate  enough  to  remember  that.  You 
will  writeyour  book," 

Bernardine  shook  her  head. 

"  I  don't  seem  to  care  now,"  she  said.  "  I 
think  I  could  now  be  content  with  a  quieter 
and  more  useful  part." 

"  You  will  write  your  book,"  he  continued. 
"  Now  listen  to  me.  Whatever  else  you  may 
do,  don't  make  your  characters  hold  long  dis- 
cussions Avith  each  other.  In  real  life,  people 
do  not  talk  four  pages  at  a  time  without 
stopping.  Also,  if  you  bring  together  two 
clever  men,  don't  make  them  talk  cleverly. 
Clever  people  do  not.  It  is  only  the  stupid 
ones  who  think  they  must  talk  cleverly  all  the 
time.  And  don't  detain  your  reader  too  long  : 
if  you  must  have  a  sunset,  let  it  be  a  short  one. 
I  could  give  you  many  more  hints  which  would 
be  useful  to  you," 


ISO  snips  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

"  But  why  not  use  your  own  hints  for  your 
eclf  ?  "  she  suggested. 

"  That  wpuld  be  selfish  of  me,"  he  said 
solemnly.     "  I  wish  you  to  profit  by  them." 

"  You  are  learning  to  be  unselfish  at  a  very 
rapid  rate*''  Bernardine  said. 

At  that  moment  Mrs.  Reffold  came  into  the 
breakfast-room,  and,  seeing  Bernardine,  gave 
her  a  stiff  bow. 

"  I  thought  you  and  Mrs.  Reffold  were  such 
friends,"  Robex't  Allitsen  said. 

Bernardine  then  told  him  of  her  last  interview 
with  Mrs.  Reffold. 

"  Well,  if  you  feel  urTComfortable,  it  is  as  it 
should  be,"  he  said.  "  I  don't  see  what  busi- 
ness you  had  to  point  out  to  Mrs.  Reffold  her 
duty.  I  dare  say  she  knows  it  quite  well, 
though  she  may  not  choose  to  do  it.  I  am  sure 
I  should  resent  it,  if  any  one  pointed  out  my  duty 
to  me.  Every  one  knows  his  own  duty.  •  And 
it  is  his  own  affair  whether  or  not  he  does  it." 

"  I  wonder  if  you  are  right,"  Bernardine 
eaid.  "I  never  meant  to  presume ;  but  her 
^indifference  had  exasperated  me. 


WHICH  CONTAINS  NOTHING.  151 

"  Why  should  you  be  exasperated  about  other 
people's  affairs  ? "  he  said.  "  And  why  interfere 
at  all?" 

"  Being-  interested  is  not  the  same  as  beinoj 
interfering,"  she  replied  quickly. 

"  It  is  difficult  to  be  the  one  without  being 
the  other,"  he  said  "  It  requires  a  genius. 
There  is  a  genius  for  being  sympathetic  as  well 
as  a  genius  for  being  good.  And  geniuses  are 
few." 

"  But  I  knew  one,"  Bernardino  said.  "  There 
was  a  friend  to  whom  in  the  first  days  of  my 
trouble  I  turned  for  sympathy.  When  others 
only  irritated,  she  could  soothe.  She  had  only 
to  come  into  my  room,  and  all  was  well  with 
me." 

There  were  tears  in  Bernardine's  eyes  as  she 
spoke.' 

"  Well,"  said  the  Disagreeable  Man  kindly, 
*'  and  where  is  your  genius  now  ? '' 

"  She  went  away,  she  and  hers,"  Bernardino 
said.  "  And  that  was  the  end  of  that 
chapter." 

"  Poor  little  child,"  he  said,  half  to  himself. 


152  SHIPS  THA  T  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

*■'  Don't  I  too  know  something  about  the  ending 
of  such  a  chapter  ? " 

But  Bernardine  did  not  hear  hhn  ;  she  was 
thinking  of  her  friend.  She  was  thinking,  as 
we  all  think,  that  those  to  whom  in  our  suffer- 
ing we  turn  for  sympathy,  become  hallowed 
beings.  Saints  they  may  not  be  ;  but  for  want 
of  a  better  name,  saints  they  are  to  us,  gracious 
and  lovely  presences.  The  great  time  Eternit}', 
the  great  space  Death,  could  not  rob  them  of 
jheir  saintship  ;  for  they  were  canonized  by 
our  bitterest  tears. 

She  was  roused  from  her  reverie  by  the  Dis- 
agreeable Man,  who  got  up,  and  pushed  his 
chair  noisily  under  the  table. 

"  Will  you  come  and  help  me  to  develop 
some  photographs  1 "  he  asked  cheerily.  "  You 
do  not  need-  to  have  a  straight  ej-e  for 
thatl" 

Then  as"  they  went  along  together,  he 
said : 

"  When  we  come  to  think  about  it  seriously,  it 
is  rather  absurd  for  us  to  expect  to  have  uninter- 
rupted stretches  of  happiness.     Happiness  falls 


^WHICIJ  CONTAINS  NOTHING.  1C3 

to  our  share  in  separate  detached  bits ;  and 
those  of  us  who  are  wise,  content  ourselves  with 
theso  broken  fragments." 

"  But  who  is  wise  \ "  Bernardine  asked. 
"  Why,  we  all  expect  to  be  .happy.  Mo  ono 
told  us  that  we  were  to  be^  happyv  Still, 
though  no  one  told  us,  it  is  the  true  instinct  of 
human  nature." 

"  It  would  be  interesting  to  know  at  what 
particular  period  of  evolution  into  our  present 
glorious  types  we  felt  that  instinct  for  the 
first  time,"  he  said.  "The  sunshine  must  have 
had  something  to  do  with  it.  You  see  how  a 
dog  throws  itself  down  in  the  sunshine  ;-  the 
most  wretched  cur  heaves  a  sigh  of  content 
then  ;  the  sulkiest  cat  begins  to  purr." 

They  were  standing  outside  the  room  set 
apart  for  the  photograph-maniacs  of  the 
Kurhaus. 

"  I  cannot  go  into  that  horrid  little  hole," 
Bernardine  said.  "  And  besides,  I  have 
pi'Otoised  to  play  chess  with  the  Swedish  pro- 
fessor. And  after  that  I  am  going  to  photo- 
graph Marie.     T  promised  Wiirli  I  would." 


\3i  SJi/PS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT, 

The  Disafrreeable  Man  smiled  o-rimlv. 

"  I  hope  he  will  be  able  to  recognize  her !"  he 
said.  Then,  feeling  that  he  was  on  dangerous 
ground,  he  added  quickly  : 

"  If  you  want  any  more  plates,  I  can  oblige 
you." 

On  her  way  to  her  room  she  stopped  to  talk 
to  pretty  Friiulein  Muller,  who  was  in  high 
spirits,  having  had  an  excellent  report  from  the 
Doctor.  Friiulein  Muller  always  Insisted  on 
talking  English  with  Bernardine  ;  and  as  her 
knowledge  of  it  was  limited,  a  certain  amount 
of  imagination  was  necessary  to  enable  her  to  be 
understood. 

"Ah,  Miss  Holme,"  she  said,  "I  have 
deceived  an  exquisite  report  from  the  Doctor." 

"  You  are  looking  ever  so  well,"  Bernardine 
Bald.  "  And  the  love-making  v.'Ith  the  Spanish 
gentleman  goes  on  well,  too  ?  " 

"Ach!"  was  the  merry  answer.  "That  is 
your  Inventory  !     I  am  quite  indolent  to  him  !" 

At  that  moment  the  Spanish  gentleman  came 
out  of  the  Kurhaus  flower-shop,  with  a  beauti- 
ful bouquet  of  flowers. 


WHICH  CONTAINS  NOTHING.  155 

"Mademoiselle,''  he  said,  handing  them  to 
Fiiiulein  Muller,  and  at  the  same  time  putting 
his  hand  to  his  heart.  He  had  not  noticed 
Bernardine  at  first,  and  when  he  saw  her,  hei 
became  somewhat  confused.  She  smiled  at  them 
both,  and  escaped  into  the  flower-shop,  which 
Vv'as  situated  in  one  of  the  covered  passages 
connecting  the  mother-building  with  the  depen- 
dencies. Herr  Schmidt,  the  gardener,  was 
making  a  wreath.  His  favourite  companion,  a 
saffron  cat,  was  playing  with  the  wire.  Schmidt 
was  rather  an  ill-tempered  man,  but  he  liked 
Bernardine 

"  I  have  put  thesfe  violets  aside  for  you, 
Fraulein,"he  said,  in  his  sulky  way.  "I 'meant 
to  have  sent  them  to  your  room,  but  liAve  been. 
interrupted  in  my  work." 

"  You  spoil  me  with  your  gifts,"  she  said. 

"  You  spoil  my  cat  with  the  milk,"  he 
replied,  looking  up  from  his  work. 

"  That  is  a  beautiful  wreath  you  ai'e  making, 
Herr  Schmidt,"  she  said.  "  Who  has  died  ? 
Any  one  in  the  Kurhaus-?  " 

"  No,   Friiulein.     But  I    ought  to  keep   my 


15B  SHIPS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

door  locked  when  I  make  these  wreaths.  People 
get  fi  ightened,  and  think  they,  too,  are  going  to 
die.     Shall  you  be  frightened,  I  wonder?  " 

"No,  I  believe  not,"  she  answered  as  she 
took  possession  of  her  violets,  and  stroked  the 
saffron  cat.  "  But  I  am  glad  no  one  has  died 
here." 

"  It  is  for  a  young,  beautiful  lady,"  he  said. 
*'  She  was  in  the  Kurhaus  two  years  ago.  I 
liked  her.  So  I  am  taking  extra  pains.  She 
did  not  care  for  the  flowers  to  be  wired.  So  I 
am  trying  my  best  without  the  wire.  But  it  is 
difficult." 

She  left  him  to  his  work,  and  went  away, 
thinking.  All  the  time  she  had  now  been  in 
Petershof  had  not  sufficed  to  make  her 
indifferent  to  the  sadness  of  her  surroundings. 
In  vain  the  Disagreeable  Man's  preachings,  in 
vain  her  own  reasonings  with  herself 

These  people  here  who  suffered,  and  faded, 
and  passed  away,  who  were  they  to  her  ? 

Why  should  the  faintest  shadow  steal  across 
her  soul  on  account  of  them  ? 

There  was  no  reason.      And  still  she  felt  fot 


WHICH  CONTAINS  NOTHIXG.  137 

t.hem  all,  she  who  in  the  old  days  would  havd 
thought  it  waste  of  time  to  spare  a  moment's 
reflection  on  anything  so  unimportant  as  the 
BufFerino's  of  an  individual  human  beinfr. 

And  the  bridge  between  her  former  and  her 
present  self  was  her  own  illness. 

What  dull-minded  sheep  we  must  all  be^ 
how  lacking  in  the  very  elements  of  imagina- 
tion, since  we  are  only  able  to  learn  by 
personal  experience  of  grief  and  suffering, 
something  about  the  suffering  and  grief  of 
others  ! 

Yea,  how  the  dogs  must  wonder  at  us : 
those  dogs  who  know  when  we  are  in  pain,  or 
trouble,  and  nestle;  neai^er  to  us. 

So  Bernardine  reached  her  own  door.  She 
iieard  her  name  called,  and,  turning  round,  saw 
Mrs.  Reffold.  There  was  a  scared  look  on  the 
beautiful  face. 

"  Miss  Holme,"  she  said,  "  I  have  been  sent 
for — I  daren't  go  to  him  alone — I  want  you — 
he  is  worse.     I  am  "  .  .  .  . 

Bernardme  took  her  hand,  and  the  two 
women  hurried  away  in  silence. 


CHAPTER  XVL 

WHEN  THE  SOUL  KNOWS   ITS  OWN  REMORSE. 

Beknardine  had  seen  Mr.  Reffold  the  previous 
day.  She  had  sat  by  his  side  and  held  his 
hand.  He  had  smiled  at  her  many  times,  but 
he  only  spoke  once.  - 

"  Little  Brick,"  he  whispered — for  his 
voice  had  become  nothing  but  a  whisper 
— "  I  remember  all  you  told  me.  God  bless 
you.  But  what  a  long  time  it  does  take 
to  die." 

But  that  was  yesterday. 

The  lane  had  come  to  an  ending  at  last,  and 
Mr.  Reffold  lay  dead. 

They  bore  him  to  the  little  mortuary  chapel. 
And  Bemardine  stayed  with  Mrs.  Reffold,  who 


WHEN  THE  SOUL  KNOWS  ITS  OWN  KEMOJiSE.   159 

'BeemeJ  afraid  to  be  alone.  She  clung  to 
Bernardine's  hand 

"  No,  no,"  she  said  excitedly,  "  you  must  not 
go !  I  can't  bear  to  be  alone  ;  you  must  stay 
with  me." 

She  expressed  no  sorrow,  no  regret.  She  did 
not  even  speak  his  name.  She  just  sat  nursing 
her  beautiful  face. 

Once  or  twice  Bernardino  tried  to  slip  away. 
This  waiting  about  was  a  strain  on  her,,  and  she 
felt  that  she  was  doing  no  good. 

But  each  time  Mrs.  Beiiblcl  looked  up  and 
prevented  her. 

"No,  no,"  she  said.  *' I  can't  bear  myself 
without  you.  I  must  have  you  near  me.  Why 
should  you  leave  me  1  " 

So  Bernardino  lingered.  She  tried  to  read  a 
book  which  lay  on  the  table.  She  counted  the 
lines  and  dots  on  the  wall-paper.  She  thought 
about  the  dead  man  ;  and  about  the  living 
woman.  She  had  pitied  him  ;  but  when  she 
looked  at  the  stricken  face  of  his  wife, 
Bernardine's  whole  heart  rose  up  in  pity  for 
her.     Remorse  would  come,  although  it  might 


180  SH/PS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

not  remain  long.  The  soul  would  see  itself  face 
to  face  foi"  one  brief  moment  and  then  forget 
its  own  likeness. 

But  for  the  moment — what  a  weight  of 
suffering,  what  a  whole  century  of  agony  ! 

Bernardino  grew  very  tender  for  Mrs. 
Reffold  :  she  bent  over  the  sofa,  and  fondled  tho 
beautiful  face. 

"  Mrs.  Reffold  "...  she  whispered. 

That  was  all  she  said  :  but  it  was  enough. 

Mrs.  Reffold  burst  into  an  agony  of  tears. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Holme,"  she  sobbed,  "  and  I  waa 
not  even  kind  to  him  !  And  now  it  is  too  late. 
How  can  I  ever  bear  myself?  " 

And  then  it  was  that  the  soul  knew  its  own 
remorse. 


CHAPTER  XVIL 

A   RETUEN   TO   OLD   PASTURES. 

She  had  left  him  alone  and  neglected  for  whole 
hours  when  he  was  alive.  And  now  when  h(. 
was  dead,  and  it  probably  mattered  little  to 
him  where  he  was  laid,  it  was  some  time  before 
she  could  make  up  her  mind  to  leave  him  in  the 
lonely  little  Petershof  cemetery, 

'*  It  will  be  so  dreary  for  him  there,"  she  said 
to  the  Doctor. 

"  Not  so  dreary  as  you  made  it  for  him 
here,"  thought  the  Doctor. 

But  he  did  not  say  that :  he  just  urged  her 
quietly  to  have  her  husband  buried  in  Peters- 
hof ;  and  she  yielded. 

So  they  laid  him  to  rest  in  the  dreary 
cemetery. 


162  SB/PS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

Bernardine  went  to  the  funeral,  much  against 
the  Disagreeable  Man's  wish. 

"  You  are  looking  like  a  ghost  yourself,"  he 
said  to  her.  "  Come  out  with  me  into  the 
country  instead." 

But  she  shook  her  head. 

"Another  day,"  she  said.  "And  Mrs. 
Reffold  wants  me.  I  can't  leave  her  alone,  for 
she  is  so  miserable." 

The  Disagreeable  Man  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  and  went  off  by  himself 

Mi's.  Reffold  clung  very  much  to  Bernardine 
those  last  days  before  she  left  Petershof  She 
had  decided  to  go  to  Wiesbaden,  where  she  had 
relations  ;  and  she  invited  Bernardine  to  go 
with  her :  it  u'^as  more  than  that,  she  almost 
be£r£fed  her.     Bernardine  refused. 

"I  have  been  from  England  nearly  five 
months,"  she  said,  "  and  my  money  is  coming  to 
an  end.     I  must  go  back  and  work." 

"  Then  come  away  with  me  as  my  com- 
panion," Mrs.  Reffold  suggested.  "  And  I  will 
pay  you  a  handsome  salary, " 

Bernardine  could  not  be  persuaded. . 


A  RETURN  TO  OLD  PASTURES.  163 

*'  No,"  she  said.  "  I  could  not  earn  money 
that  way  :  it  would  not  suit  me.  And  besides, 
you  would  not  care  to  be  a  long  time  with  me : 
you  would  soon  tire  of  me.  You  think  you 
would  like  to  have  me  with  you  now.  But  I 
know  how  it  would  be  you  would  be  sorry, 
and  so  should  I,  So  let  us  part  as  we  are  now  : 
you  going  your  way,  and  I  gomg  mine.  We 
live  in  different  worlds,  Mrs.  Reffold  •  it  would 
be  as  senseless  for  me  to  venture  into  yours,  as 
for  you  to  come  into  mine.  Do  you  think  I  am 
unkind  ? " 

So  they  parted.  Mrs.  Reffold  had  spoken 
no  word  of  affection  to  Bernardino,  but  at  the 
station,  as  she  bent  down  to  kiss  her,  she 
whispered  : 

*'  I  know  you  will  not  think  too  hardly  of  me. 
Still,  will  you  promise  me  ?  And  if  you  are 
•ever  in  trouble,  and  I  can  help  you,  will  you 
write  to  me  1 " 

And  Bernardino  promised. 

When  she  got  back  to  her  room,  she  found  a 
small  packet  on  her  table.  It  contained  Mr. 
RePibld's  watch-chain.      She  had  so  often  seen 

M  2 


164  Sn/rs   THAT  PASS  IN   THE  NIGHT. 

him  playing  with  it.  There  was  a  Httle  piece  of 
paper  enclosed  with  it,  and  Mr.  Reffold  had 
written  on  it  some  two  months  ago  :  "  Give  my 
watch-chain  to  Little  Brick,  if  she  will  sacrifice 
a  little  of  her  pride,  and  accept  the  gift." 
Bernardine  unfastened  her  watch  from  the 
black  hair  cord,  and  attached  it  instead  to  Mr. 
Reffold's  massive  gold  chain. 

As  she  sat  there  fiddling  with  it,  the  idea 
seized  her  that  she  would  be  all  the  better  for  a 
day's  outing.  At  first  she  thought  she  would 
go  alone,  and  then  she  decided  to  ask  Robert 
Allitsen.  She  learnt  from  Marie  that  he  was  in 
the  dai'k  room,  and  she  hastened  down.  She 
knocked  several  times  before  there  was  any 
.answer. 

"  I  can't  be  disturbed  just  now,"  he  said. 
••  Who  is  it  ? " 

"  I  can't  shout  to  you,"  she  said. 

The  Disagreeable  Man  opened  the  door  of  the 
dark  room. 

"  My  negatives  will  be  spoilt,"  he  said  gruffly. 
Then  seeing  Bernardine  standing  there,  lie 
added ; 


A  RETURN  TO  OLD  PASTURES.  165 

"  Why,  you  look  as  though  you  wanted  some 
brandy." 

"  No,"  she  said,  smllinor  at  his  sudden  change 
of  manner.  "  I  want  fresh  air,  a  sledge  drive, 
and  a  day's  outing.     Will  you  come  ?  " 

He  made  no  answer,  and  retired  once  more 
into  the  dark  room.  Then  he  came  out  with 
his  camera. 

"  We  will  go  to  that  inn  again,"  he  said 
cheerily.  "  I  want  to  take  the  photographs  to 
those  peasants." 

In  half  an  hour's  time  they  were  on  their  way. 
It  was  the  same  drive  as  before  :  and  since  then, 
Bernardino  had  seen  more  of  the  country,  and 
was  more  accustomed  to  the  wonderful  white 
scenery:  hut  still  the  "white  presences" 
awed  her,  and  still  the  deep  silence  held  her. 
It  was  the  same  scene,  and  yet  not  the  same 
either,  for  the  season  was  now  flir  advanced, 
and  the  melting  of  the  snows  had  begun.  In 
the  far  distance  the  whiteness  seemed  as  before  ; 
but  01  the  slopes  near  at  hand,  the  green  '^as 
beginning  to  assert  itself,  and  some  of  the 
great  trees  had  cast  off  their  heavy  burdens. 


1 06  Sn/PS    THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NICHT. 

arid  apjpeared  more  gloomy  in  their  freedom 
tlian  in  the  days  of  their  snow-bondage.  The 
roads  were  no  longer  quite  so  even  as  before; 
the  sledge'  glided  along  when  it  could,  arid 
bumped  along  when  it  must.  Still,  there  was 
sufiicient  snow  left  to  make  the  drive  possihlp, 
and  even  pleasant. 

The  two  companions  were  quiet.  -  Once  only 
the  Disagreeable  Man  made  a  remark,  and 
then  he  said  : 

"I  am  afraid  my  negatives  will  be  spoilt." 

"  You  said  that  before,"  Bernardine  remarked. 

"  Well,  I  say  it  again,"  he  answered,  in  his 
grim  way. 

Theri  came  a  long  pause. 

"  The  best  part  of  the'  winter  is  over,*'  h'^. 
said.  "  Wo  niav  have  soriie  more  snow  ;  but  it 
is  more  probable  that  we  shall  not.  It  is  not 
enjoyable  being  here  during  the  melting  tinie." 
'"Well,  in  any  case  I  should  not  be  here 
much  longer,"  she  said ;  "  and  for  a  simple 
reason,  too.  I  have'  nearly  come  to  the  end  of 
my  money.  I  shall  have  to  go  back  and  set  to 
work  again.     I  should  not  haye  been  able  to 


A  RETURN  TO  OLD  PASTURES.  167 

give  myself  this  chance,  but  that  my  uncle 
spared  me  some  ^'^  his  money^  to  Avhich  I  added 
iny  savings." 

"  Are  you  badly  off?  "  the  Disagreeable  Man 
asked  rather  timidly. 

"  I  have  very  few  wants,"  she  answered 
brightly.  "And  wealth  is  only  a  relative  v/ord, 
after  all" 

*'  It  is  a  pity  that  you  should  ^o  back  to 
work  so  soon,"  he  said  half  to  himself  "  You 
are  only  just  better ;  and  it  is  easy  to  lose  what 
one  has  gained." 

"  Oh,  I  am  not  likely  to  lose,"  she  answered  ; 
"  but  I  shall  be  careful  this  time.  I  shall  do  a 
little  teaching,  and  perhaps  a  little  writing  : 
not  much — you  need  not  be  vexed.  I  shall 
not  try  to  pick  up  the  other  threads  yet.  I 
shall  not  be  political,  nor  educational,  nor 
anything  else  great." 

"If  you  call  politics  or  education  great,"  he 
said.  "  And  heaven  defend  mc  from  political 
or  highly  educated  women  !  " 

"  You  say  that  because  you  know  nothing 
about  them,"  she  said  sharply. 


IG8  Sin  PS  THAT  PASS  JN  THE  NIGHT. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  replied..  ■  "I  have  met  them 
quite  often  eno.igh."' 

"  That  was  probably  some  tirne  ago,"  she 
said  rather  heartlessly.  "If  you  have  lived 
here  sq  long,  how  can  you  judge  of  the  changes 
which  go  on  in  the  world  outside  Petershof  ?" 

!' If  I  have  lived  here  so  long,"  he  repeated, 
in  the  bitterness  of  his  heart 

/Bernardino   did  not  notice  :    slie  ,  was  on  a 
subject  which  always  excited  her. 

"I  don't  know  so  much  about  the  political 
women,"  she  said,  "but  I  do  know  about  the 
higher  education  people.  The  writers  who  rail 
against  the  women  of  this  date  are  really 
describing  the  women  of  ten  years  ago.  Why, 
the  Girton  girl  of  ten  years  ago  seems  a  different 
creation  from  the  Girton  girl  of  to-day.  Yet 
the  latter  has  been  the  steady  outgrowth  of 
the  former." 

" And  the  difference  between  them?"  asked 
the  Disagreeable  Man  ;  "  since  you  pride  your- 
self on  being  so  well  informed." 

"  The  Girton  girl  of  ten  years  ago,"  said 
Bernardino,  "  was  a  sombre,  spectacled  person,. 


A  RETURN  TO  OLD  PASTURES.  169 

carelessly  and  dowdily  dressed,  who  gaye 
herself  up  to  wisdom  and  despised  every  one 
who  did  not  know  the  Agamemnon  by  heart. 
She  .  was  '  probably  nob  lovable  ;  but  she 
deserves  to  be^  honoured  and  thankfully  remem- 
bered. She  fought  for  woman's  right  to  be 
well  educated,  and  I  cannot  bear  to  hear  her 
slighted.  The  fresh -hearted  young  girl  who 
nowadays  plays  a  good  game  of  tennis,  and 
takes  a  high  place  in  the  Classical  or  Mathe- 
matical, Tripos,  and  is  book  learned,  without 
being  bookish,  and  .   .  .  ." 

"  What  other  virtues  are  left,  I  wonder  ? "  he 
interrupted. 

"  And  \i\iO  does  not  scorn  to  take  a  pidde  in 
her  looks  'because  she  happens  to  take  a  pride 
in  her  books,"  continued  Bernardino,  looking  at 
the  Disagreeable  Man,  and  not  seeming  to  see 
him:  "she  is  what  sho  is  by  reason  of  that 
grave  and  loveless  woman  who  won  the  battle 
fpr  her." 

Here  she  paused. 

"  But  how  ridiculous  for  me  to  talk  to  you  in 
thir.  way  ! "  she  said.    "  It  is  not  likely  that  you 


170  SHIPS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT, 

would  be   interested  in   the    wideniiig  out  of 
women's  lives." 

"  And  pray  why  not  ?  "  he  asked.  *'  Have  I 
been  on  the  shelf  too  long  ?  " 

"  I  think  you  would  not  have  been  interested 
even  if  you  had  never  been  on  the  shelf,"  she 
said  frankly.  "  You  are  not  the  type  of  man 
to  be  generous  to  woman." 

"  May  I  ask  one  little  question  of  you,  which 
shall  conclude  this  subject,"  he  said,  "  since  here 
we  are  already  at  the  Gasthaus  :  to  which  type 
of  learned  woman  do  you  lay  claim  to  belong  ? " 

Bernardino  laughed. 

"  That  I  leave  to  your  own  powers  of  dis- 
crimination," she  said,  and  then  added,  "  if 
you  have  any." 

And  that  was  the  end  of  the  matter,  for  the 
word  spread  about  that  Herr  Allitsen  had 
arrived,  and  every  one  turned  out  to  give  the 
tvv'o  guests  greeting.  Frau  Steinhart  smothered 
Bernardino  with  motherly  tenderness,  and 
whispered  in  her  ear  : 

"You  are  betrothed  now,  liebes  Friiulein? 
Ach,  I  am  sure  of  it." 


A  RETURM  TO  OLD  PASTURES.  171 

But  Bernardine  smiled  and  shook  her  head, 
and  went  to  greet  the  others  who  crowded 
round  them  ;  and  at  last  poor  Catharina  drew 
near  too,  holding  Bernardine's  hand  lovingly 
within  her  own.  •  Then  Hans,  Liza's  lover, 
came  upon  the  scene,  and  Liza  told  the 
Disagfreeable  Man  that  she  and  Hans  were  to 
be  married  in  a  month's  time.  And  the  Dis- 
acreeable  Man,  much  to  Bernardine's  amaze- 
ment,  drew  from  his  pocket  a  small  parcel,  which 
lie  confided  to  Liza's  care.  Every  one  pressed 
round  her  while  she  opened  it,  and  found  what 
she  had  so  often  wished  for,  a  silver  watch  and 
chain. 

"  Ach,"  she  cried,  "  how  heavenly!  How  all 
the  girls  here  will  envy  me  !  How  angry  my 
dear  friend  Susanna  will  be  ! " 

Then  there  were  the  photographs  to  be 
examined. 

Liza  looked  with  stubborn  disapproval  on 
the  pictures  of  herself  in  her  working-dress.  But 
she  did  not  conceal  her  admiration  of  the 
portraits  which  shelved  her  to  the  world  in  her 
best  finery. 


172  SIJIPS  THA  T  PASS  IN  THE  NICHT. 

*'  Ach,"  she  cried,  "  this  is  something  like  a 
photoo^raph  ! " 

The  Disacrreeable  Man  ofrunted,  but  behaved 
after  the  fashion  of  a  hero,  claiming,  however,  a 
little  silent  sympathy  from  Bernardine. 

It  was  a  pleasant,  homely  scene  :  and  Bernar- 
dine, who  felt  quite  at  her  ease  amongst  these 
people,  chatted  away  with  them  as  though  she 
had  known  them  all  hei'  life. 

Then  Frau  Steinhart  suddenly  remembered 
that  her  guests  needed  some  food,  and  Liza 
was  despatched  to  her  duties  as  cook  ;  though 
it  was  some  time  before  she  could  be  induced  to 
leave  off  looking  at  the  photographs. 

"  Take  them  with  you,  Liza,"  said  tlie 
Disagreeable  Man.  "  Then  we  shall  get  our 
meal  all  the  quicker." 

She  ran  off  laughing,  and  finally  Bernardine    \ 
found  herself  alone  with  Catharina. 

"  Liza  is  very  happy,"  she  said  to  Bernardine. 
"  She  loves,  and  is  loved." 

"  That  is  the  greatest  happiness,"  Bernardine 
said  half  to  herself. 

"  Fraulein  knows  ?  "  Catharina  asked  eagerly. 


A  RETURN  TO  OLD  PASTURES.  173 

Bernardine  looked  wistfully  at  her  companion. 

"  No,  Catharina,"  she  said.  "  I  have  'only 
heard  and  read  and  seen." 

"  Then  you  cannot  understand,"  Catharina 
said  almost  proudly.     "  But  /  understand." 

She  spoke  no  more  after  that,  but  took  up 
her  knitting,  and  watched  Bernardine  playing 
with  the  kittens.  She  Avas  playing  with  the 
kittens,  and  she  was  thinking ;  and  all  the 
time  she  felt  conscious  that  this  peasant 
woman,  stricken  in  mind  and  body,  was  pitying 
her  because  that  great  happiness  of  loving  and 
being  loved  had  not  come  into  her  life. 
It  had  seemed  something  apart  from  her : 
she  had  never  even  wanted  it.  She  had 
wished  to  stand  alone,  like  a  little  rock  out 
at  sea. 

And  now  ? 

In  a  few  minutes  the  Disagreeable  Man  and 
she  sat  dovvn  to  their  meal.  In  spite  of  her 
excitement,  Liza  managed  to  prepare  every- 
thing nicely  ;  though  when  she  was  making  the 
omelette  aux  fines  herbcs,  she  had  to  be  kept 
guarded  lest  she  might  run  off  to  have  another 


174  SH/PS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

look  at  the  silver  v/atch  and  the  photographs  of 
herself  in  her  finest  frock  ! 

Then  Bernardine  and  Robert  Allitsen  drank 
to  the  health  of  Hans  and  Liza :  and  then  came 
the  time  of  reckoning'.  When  he  was  paying 
the  bill,  Frau  Steinhart,  having  given  him  the 
change,  said  coaxingly  : 

"  Last  time,  you  and  Frauleln  each  paid  a 
share  :  to-day  you  pay  all.  Then  perhaps  you 
are  betrothed  at  last,  dear  Herr  Allitsen?  Ach, 
how  the  old  Hausfrau  wishes  you  happiness  ! 
Who  deserves  to  be  happy,  if  it  is  not  our 
dear  Herr  Allitsen  ? " 

"You  have  given  me  twenty  centimes  too 
much,"  he  said  quietly  "  You  have  your  head 
so  full  of  other  things  that  you  cannot  reckon 
properly." 

But  seeing  that  she  looked  troubled  lest  she 
might  have  offended  him,  he  added  quickly  : 

"  When  I  am  betrothed,  good  little  old  house- 
mother, you  shall  be  the  first  to  know." 

And  she  had  to  be  content  with  that.  ■  Sha 
asked  no  more  questions  of  either  of  them  :  but 
she    was    terribly    disappointed.      There  'wag 


A  RETURiV  TO  OLD  PASTURES.  175 

something  a  little  comical  in  her  disappoint- 
ment ;  but  Robert  Allitsen  was  not  amused  at 
it,  as  he  had  been  on  a  former  occasion.  As  he 
leaned  back  in  the  sledge,  with  the  same  girl 
for  his  companion,  he  recalled  his  feelings.  He 
had  been  astonished  and  amused,  and  perhaps 
a  little  shy,  and  a  great  deal  relieved  that  she 
had  been  sensible  enough   to  be   amused  too. 

And  now  ? 

They  had  been  constantly  together  for  many 
months :  he  who  had  never  cared  before  for 
companionship,  had  found  himself  turning  more 
and  more  to  her. 

And  now  he  was  going  to  lose  her. 

He  looked  i;p  once  or  twice  to  make  sure 
that  she  was  still  by  his  side  :  she  sat  there  so 
quietly.  At  last  he  spoke  in  his  usual  gruff 
way. 

"  Have  you  exhausted  all  your  eloquence  in 
your  oration  about  learned  women  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Noy  I  am  reserving  it  for  a  better 
audience,"  she  answered,  trying  to  be  bright. 
But  she  was  not  bright. 

•'  I  believe  you  came  out  to  the  country  to- 


176  SHJPS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

day  to  seek  for  cheerfulness,"  he  said  after  a 
pause.     "  Have  you  found  it  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,"  she  said.  "  It  takes  me 
some  time  to  i-ecover  from  shocks;  and  Mr. 
Reflbid's  death  was  a  sorrow  to  me.  What 
do  you  think  about  death  ?  Have  you  any 
theories  about  hfe  and  death,  and  the  bridge 
between  them  \  Could  you  say  anything  to 
help  one  ? " 

"  Nothing,"  he  answered.  "  Who  could  ? 
And  by  what  means  ? " 

"  Has  there  been  no  value  in  philosophy," 
she  asked,  "  and  the  meditations  of  learnM' 
men  ?  " 

"  Philosophy  !  "  he  sneered.  "  What  has  it 
done  for  us  ?  It  has  taught  us  some  processes 
of  the  mind's  working ;  taught  us  a  few 
wonderful  things  which  interest  the  few ;  but 
the  centuries  have  come  and  gone,  and  the  only 
thing  which  the  whole  human  race  pants  to 
know,  remains  unknown :  our  beloyed  ones,  shall 
we  meet  them,  and  how  ? — the  great  secret 
of  the  universe.  We  ask  for  bread,  and  these 
philosophers  give  us  a  stone.     What  help  could 


A  RETURN  TO  OLD  PASTURES.  17: 

come  from  them  :  or  from  any  one  ?  Deatlji  is' 
simply  one  of  the  hard  facts  of  life." 

"  And  the  greatest  evil,"  she  said. 

"  We  weave  oi^r  romances  about  the  next 
world,"  he  continued  ;  "  and  any  one  who  has 
a  fresh  romance  to  relate,  or  an  old  one  dressed 
up  in  new  language,  will  be  listened  to,  and 
welcomed.  That  helps  some  people  for  a  little 
while ;  and  when  the  charm  of  the  romance  is 
over,  then  they  are  ready  for  another,  perhaps 
more  fantastic  than  the  last.  But  the  plot  is 
always  the  same  :  our  beloved  ones — shall  we 
meet  them,  and  how  ?  Isn't  it  pitiful  ?  Why 
cannot  we  be  more  impersonal  ?  These  puny, 
petty  minds  of  ours  !  When  will  they  learn  to 
expand  \ " 

"  Why  should  we  learn  to  be  more  im- 
personal ?  "  she  said.  "  Tl>ere  was  a  time  w'hen 
I  felt  Hke  that;  but  now  I  have  learnt  some- 
thing better  that  we  need  not  be  ashamed  of 
being  human  ;  above  all,  of  having  the  best  of 
human  instincts,  love,  and  the  passionate  wish 
for  its  continuance,  and  the  vnceasing  grief  at 
its  withdrawal.     There  is  no  ii.d';;nity  in  this 


1.7S  S///rS   THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NICIIT. 

nor  any  trace  of  weakmindedness  in  our  rest- 
less craving  to  know  about  the  Hereafter,  and 
the  possibiUties  of  meeting  again  those  whom  we 
have  lost  here.  It  is  right,  .and  natural,  and 
lovely  that  it  should  be  the  most  important 
question.  I  know  that  many  will  say  that 
there  arc  weightier  questions  :  they  say  so,  but 
do  they  think  so?  Do  we  want  to  know  first 
r.nd  foremost  whether  we  shall  do  our  work 
better  elsewhere  :  whether  we  shall  be 
endowed  with  more  wisdom  :  wliether,  as  poor 
I\Ir.  Reftbld  said,  we  shall  be  glad  to  behave 
less  like  curs,  and  more  like  heroes  ?  These 
questions  come  in,  but  they  can  be  put  aside. 
Tlie  other  q\iestion  can  never  be  put  on  one 
side.  If  that  v/ere  to  become  possible,  it  would 
only  be  so  because  the  human  heart  had  lost 
the  best  part  of  it-self,  its  own  humanity.  We 
shall  ao  on  buildinir  our  bridge  between  life  and 
death,  each  one  for  himself  When- we  see  that 
it  is  not  strong  enough,  we  shall  break  it  down 
and  build  another.  We  shall  watch  othei 
people  building  their  bridges.  We  shall 
imitate,  or  criticise,  or-  condemn.      But  as  tiraj. 


A  RETURN  TO  OLD  PASTURES.  179 

goes  on,  we  sliall  learn  not  to  interfere,  we 
sliall  know  that  one  bridge  is  probably  as  good 
a3  the  other  ;  and  that  the  greatest  value  of 
tliem  all  has  been  in  the  building  of  them.  It 
doos  not  matter  what  we  build,  but  build  we 
must  :  you,  and  I,  and  every  one." 

*  I  have  long  ceased  to  build  my  bridge,"  the 
Disagreeable  Man  said. 

"  It  is  an  almost  unconscious  process,"  she 
said.  "Perhaps  you  ^  are  still  at  work,  or 
perhaps  you  are  i^estirig.'' 

He  shrugged  his  shouldev.s,  and  the  two 
comrades  fell  into  silence  again. 

They  were  within  two  miles  of  Petershof, 
when  he  broke  the  silence  :  there  was  something 
wonderfully  gentle  in  his  voice. 

"You  little  thing,"  he  said,  "we  are  neariiig 
home,  and  I  have  something  to  ask  -you.  It  is 
easier  for  me  to  ask  here  in  the  free  open 
country,  where  the  space  seems  to  give  us 
breathing  room  for  our  cramped  lungs  and 
minds." 

'"'  Well,"  she  said  kindly  ;  she  wondered  what 
he  could  have  to  say. 

N  2 


ISO  SHIPS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

"  I  am  a  little  nervous  of  offending  you,'* 
he  continued,  "  and  yet  I  trust  you.  It 
Is  only  this.  You  said  you  had  come  to 
the  end  of  your  money,  and  that  you  must 
go  home.  It  seems  a  pity  when  you  are 
getting  better,  I  have  so  much  more  than  I 
need.  I  don't  offer  it  to  you  as  a  gift,  but  I 
thouglit  if  you  wished  to  stay  longer,  a  loan 
from  me  would  not  be  quite  impossible  to  you. 
You  could  repay  as  quickly  or  as  slowly  as  was 
convenient  to  you,  and  I  should  only  be  grateful 
and" 

He  stopped  suddenly. 

The  tears  had  gathered  in  Bernardine's  eyes  ; 
her  hand  rested  for  one  moment  on  his  arm. 

"Mr.  Allitsen,"  she  said,  "you  did  well  to 
trust  me.  But  I  could  not  borrow  money  of 
any  one,  unless  I  was  obliged.  If  I  could  of 
any  one,  it  would  have  been  of  you.  It  is  not 
a  month  ago  since  I  was  a  little  anxious  about 
money ;  my  remittances  did  not  come.  I 
thought  then  that  if  obliged  to  ask  for  tempor- 
ary help,  I  should  "dome  to  you  :  so  you  see  if 
you  have  trusted  me,  I,  too,  have  trusted  you." 


A  RETURN  TO  OLD  PASTURES.  181 

A  sirQe  passed  over  the  Disagreeable  Man's 
face,  one  of  his  rare,  beautiful  smiles. 

"  Supposing  you  change  your  mind,"  he  said 
quietly,  "  you  will  not  find  that  I  have  changed 
mine." 

Then  a  few  minutes  brought  them  back  to 
Petershof. 


CHAPTER  XVIIT. 

A    BETROTHAL. 

He  had  loved  her  so  patiently,  and  now  he  felt 
that  he  must  have  his  answer.  It  Wcis  only 
fair  to  her,  and  to  himself  too,  that  he  should 
know  exactly  where  he  stood  in  her  affections. 
She  had  certainly  given  him  little  signs  here 
and  there,  which  had  made  him  believe  that 
she  was  not  indifterent  to  his  admiration. 
Little  signs  were  all  very  well  for  a  short  time ; 
but  meanwhile  the  season  was  coming  to  an 
end :  she  had  told  him  that  she  was  going 
back  to  her  work  at  home.  And  then  perhaps 
he  would  lose  her  altogether.  It  would  not  be 
safe  nov/  for  him  to  delay  a  single  day  longer. 
So  the  little  postman  armed  himself  with 
couraofe. 


i 


A  BETROTHAL.  183 

Warli's  brain  was  muddled  that  day.  He 
wlio  prided  himself  upon  knowing  the  names  of 
all  the  guests  in  Petershof,  made  the  most 
absurd  mistakes  about  people  and  letters 
too ;  and  received  in  acknowledgment  of  his 
stupidity  a  series  of  spoldings  which  would 
have  unnerved  a  stronger  person  than  the  little 
hunchback  postman. 

In  fact,  he  ceased  to  caro  how  he  gave  out  the 
letter's :  all  the  envelopes  seemed  to  have  the 
same  name  on  them :  Marie  Truog.  Every  word 
which  he  tried  to  decipher  turned  to  that ;  so 
finally  he  tried  no  more,  leaving  the  destination  of 
the  letter  to  be  decided  by. the  impulse  tf  the 
moment.  At  last  he  arrived  at  that  quarter  of 
the  Kurhaus  where  Marie  held  sway.  He  heard 
her  singing  in  her  pantry.  Suddenly  she  was 
summoned  downstairs  by  an  impatient  bell- 
ringer,  and  on  her  return  found  Wiirli  waiting 
in  the  passage. 

"  What  a  goose  you  are  ! "  she  cried,  throwing 
a  letter  at  him  ;  "  you  have  left  the  wrong  letter 
at  No.  82." 

Then  some  one  else  rang,  and  Marie  hurried 


IS4  SmrS   THAT  PASS  L\'   THE  NIC II T. 

off  again.  She  came  back  with  another  letter 
in  her  hand,  and  found  Wiirli  sitting  in  her 
pantry. 

"The  wrong  letter  left  at  No.  54,"  she  said, 
,"  aiid  Madame  in  a  horrid  temper  in  consequence. 
What  a  nuisance  you  are  to-day,  Wiirh  !  Can't 
you  read  ?  Here,  give  the  remaining  letters  to 
me.     I'll  sort  them." 

Wiirli  took  off  his  little  round  hat,  and 
wiped  his  forehead. 

"  I  can't  read  to-day,  Marie,"  he  said;  "  some- 
thing has  gone  wrong  with  me.  Every  name  I 
look  at,  turns  to  Marie  Truog.  I  ought  to  have 
brought  every  one  of  the  letters  to 'you.  But  I 
knew  they  could  not  be  all.  for  you,  though 
you  have  so  many  admirers.  For  they  would 
not  be  likely  to  write  at  the  same  time,  to 
catch  the  same  post." 

",It  would  be  very  dull  if  they  did,"  said 
Marie,  who  v/as  polishing  some  water-bottles 
with  more  diligence  than  Avas  usual  or  even 
■necessary. 

•'  But  I  am  the  one  who  loves  you,  Marie- 
chen,'"    the     little     postman   said.      "  I    have 


A  BETROTHAL.  )89 

always  loved  you  ever  since  I  can  remember. 
I  am  not  mucla  to  look  at,  Mariechen :  the 
binding  of  the  book  is  not  beautiful,  but  the 
book  itself  is  not  a  bad  book." 

Marie  went  on  polishing  the  waterdjottles. 
Tlien  slie  held  them  up  to  the  light  to  admire 
theii'  unwonted  cleanness. 

"  I  don't  [)lead  for  myself,"  continued  Wiirli. 
"If you  don't  love  me,  that  is  the  end  of  the 
matter.  But  if  you  do  love  me,  Mariechen,  and 
will  mari-y  me,  you  won't  be  unhappy.  Now  I 
have  said  all." 

Marie  put  down  the  water-bottles,  and 
tuii.ed  to  Warli. 

"  You  have  been  a  loner  time  in  tellinof  tne  " 
she  said,  pouting.  "  Why  didn't  you  tell  me 
three  months  ago?     It's  too  late  now." 

"  Oh,  Mariechen  ! "  said  the  little  postman, 
seizing  her  hand  and  covering  it  wdth  kisses  ; 
"  you  love  some  one  else — you  are  already 
betrothed  ?  And  now  it's  too  latej  and  you  love 
some  one  else  !  " 

"  I  never  said  I  loved  some  one  else,"  Mario 
replied  ;  "  I  only  said  it  was  too  late.     Why,  it 


tS8  SHIPS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

must  be  nearly  five  o'clock,  and  my  lamps  ar(» 
not  yet  ready.  I  haven't  a  moment  to  spare. 
Dear  me,  and  there  is  no  oil  in  the  can  ;  no,  not 
one  little  drop  !  ' 

"  The  devil  take  the  oil!"  exclaimed  Wiirli, 
snatching  the  can  out  of  her  hands.  "  What 
do  I  want  to  know  about  the  oil  in  the  can? 
1  want  to  know  about  the  love  in  your  heart. 
Oh,  Mariechen,  don't  keep  me  waiting  like  this ! 
Just  tell  me  if  you  love  me,  and  make  me  the 
>^aor-riest  soul  in  all  Switzerland." 

"  Must  I  tell  the  truth,"  she  said,  in  a  most 
x^eiancholy  tone  of  voice;  "the  truth  and 
nothing  else  ?  Well,  Warh,  if  you  must  know 
.  .  ,  .  how  I  grieve  to  hurt  you  .  ,  .  ."  Warli's 
heart  sank,  the  tears  came  into  his  eyes.  "  But 
since  it  must  be  the  truth,  and  nothing  else," 
continued  the  torturer,  .  .  .  .  "  well,  Fritz  .... 
I  love  you  !  " 

A  few  minutes  afterwards,  the  Disagreeable 
Man,  having  failed  to   attract   any   notice  by 
ringing,  descended  to  Marie's  pantry,  to  fetch 
his  lamp.     He  discovered  Wiirli  embracing  his  ■ 
betrothed. 


A  DF.TROTIIAL.  187 

*'  I  am  sorry  to  intrude,"  he  said  grimly,  and 
he  retreated  at  once.  But  directly  afterward' 
he  came  back. 

"  The  matron  has  just  come  upstairs,"  he  said 
And  he  hurried  away. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

"  SHITS  THAT   SPEAK  ^EACH  OTHER  IN  PASSING. 

Many  of  the  guests  in  the  foreign  quarter  had 
made  a  start  downwards  into  the  plains  ;  and  ■ 
the  Kurhaus  itself,  though  still  well  filled  with 
visitors,  was  every  week  losing  some  of  its 
invalids.  A  few  of  the  tables  looked  desolate, 
and  some  were  not  occupied  at  all,  the  lingerers 
having  chosen,  now  that  their  party  was  broken 
up,  to  seek  the  refuge  of  another  table.  So 
that  many  stragglers  found  their  way  to  the 
English  dining- board,  each  bringing  with  him 
his  ov/n  national  bad  manners,  and  causing 
much  annoyance  to  the  Disagreeable  Man,  who 
was  a  true  John  Bull  in  his  contempt  of  all 
foreigners.     The  English  table  was,  so  he  said, 


"SHIPS  THAT  SPEAK  EACH  OTHER  IN  PASSING"    1S9 

like    England    hsvself:     the    haven   of    other 
nation's  offscouring-s„ 

There  were  several  other  signs,  too,  that  the 
season  was  far  advanced.  The  food  had  fallen 
off  in  quality  and  quantity.  The  invalids, 
some  of  them  better  and  some  of  them  wors^, 
had  become  impatient.  And  plans  were  being 
discussed,  where  formerly  temperatures  and 
coughs  and  general  symptoms  were  the  usual 
subjects  of  conversation  !  .  The  caretakers,  too, 
were  in  a  state  of  agitation  ;  some  few  keenly 
anxious  to  be  off  to  new  pastures  ;  and  others, 
who  had  perhaps  formed  attachments,  an 
occurrence  not  unusual  in  Petershof,  were 
wishing  -to  hold  back  time  with  both  hands, 
and  were  therefore  delighted  that  the  weather,, 
which  had  not 'yet  broken  up,  gave  no  legiti- 
mate excuse  for  immediate  departure. 

Pretty  Fraulein  Mliiler  had  gone,  leaving  her 
Spanish  gentleman  quite  disconsolate  for  the 
time  being.  The  French  Marchioness  had 
returned  to  the  Parisian  circles  where  she  was 
celebrated  for  all  the  domestic  virtues,  from 
which  she  had  been  taidng  such   a  prolonged 


190  S///rS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NICHT. 

holiday  in  Petershof. '  The  httle  French 
flanseuse  and  her  poodle  had  left  for  Monte 
Carlo.  M.  Lichinsky  and  liis  mother  passed  on 
to  the  Tyrol,  where  ]\Iadame  would  no  doubt 
have  plenty  of  opportunities  for  quarrellinf^  :  or 
not  finding'  them,  would  certainly  make  them 
witiiout  any  delay,  by  this  means  keeping  herself 
in  good  spirits  and  her  son  in  bad  health. 
There  were  some,  too,  v.dio  had  hurried  off  with- 
out paying  their  doctors  :  being  of  course  those 
who  had  received  the  greatest  attention,  and 
wlio  had  expressed  the  greatest  gratitude  in 
their  time  of  trouble,  but  who  were  of  opinion 
that  thankfulness  could  very  well  take  the 
place  of  francs  :  an  opinion  not  entirely  shared 
by  the  doctors  themselves. 

The  Swedish  professor  had  betaken  himself 
off,  with  his  chessmen  and  his  chessboard. 
The  little  Polish  governess  who  clutched  so 
eagerly  at  her  paltry  winnings,  caressing  those 
centimes  with  the  same  fondness  and  fever 
that  a  greater  gambler  grasps  his  thousands  of 
francs,  she  had  left  too ;  and,  indeed,  most  of 
Bernardine's    acquaintiances    had    gone    their 


"SHIPS  THAT  SPEAK  EACH  OTHER  IN  PASSING."    JOl 

several  ways,  after  six  months'  constant  inter- 
course and  companionship,  saying  good-bye  with 
the  same  indifTereuce  as  tliougli  they  were  sayiog 
good-morning  or  good-afternoorr. 

This  cold-heartedness  struck  Bernardine  more 
than  once,  and  she  spoke  of  it  to  Robert 
Alhtsen.  It  was  the  day  before  her  own  depar- 
ture, and  she  had  gone  down  with  him  to  the 
restaurant,  and  sat  sipping  her  coffee  and 
making  her  compkaint. 

"Such  indifference  is  astonishing,  and  it  is 
sad  too.     I  cannot  understand  it,"  she  said. 

"  That  is  because  you  are  a  goose,"  he 
rcphed,  pouring  out  some  more  coffee  for  him- 
self, and  as  an  after  thought,  for  her  too. 
"  You  pretend  to  know  something  about  the 
human  heart,  and  yet  you  do  not  seem  to  grasp 
tlic  fact  that  most  of  us  are  very  Httle  interested 
in  other  people  :  they  for  us  and  we  for  them  can 
spare  only  a  small  fraction  of  time  and  atten- 
tion. We  may,  perhaps,  think  to  the  contrary, 
believing  that  we  occupy  an  important  position  in 
their  lives;  until  one  day,  when  we  are  feeling 
most .  confident  of  our  value, ,  we  see  an  un/ 


192  SHIPS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

mistalvable  sign,  given  quite  unconsciously  by 
our  friends,  that  we  are  after  all  nothinn-  to 
them  :  we  can  be  done  without,  put  on  one  side, 
and  forgotten  when  not  present.  Then,  if  we 
are  foolish,  we  are  Avounded  by  this  discovery, 
and  we  draw  back  into  ourselves.  But  if  we 
are  wise,  we  draw  back  into  ourselves  with- 
out being  wounded  :  recognizing  as  fair  and 
reasonable  that  people  can  only  have  time 
and  attention  for  their  immediate  belongings. 
Isolated  persons  have  to  learn  this  lesson  sooner 
or  later  ;  and  the  sooner  they  do  learn  it,  the 
better." 

"  And  you,"  she  asked,  "  you  have  learnt  this 
lesson  ? " 

"  Long  ago,"i  he  said  decidedly. 

"  You  take  a  hard  view  of  life,"  she 
said. 

"  Life  has  not  been  very  bright  for  me,"  he 
answered.  "  But  i  own  that  ^  have  not 
cultivated  my  garden.  And  now  it  is  too  late  : 
the  weeds  have  sprung  up  everywhere.  Once 
or  twice  I  have  thought  lately  that  1  would 
begin  to  clear  away  the  weeds,  but  I  have  not 


"SHIPS  THAT  SPEAK  EACH  OTHER  IN  PASSING."    193 

the  courage  now.  And  perhaps  it  does  not 
matter  much." 

"  I  think  it  does  matter,"  she  said  gently. 
"  But  I  am  no  better  than  you,  for  I  have  not 
cultivated  my  garden." 

"  It  would  not  be  such  a  difficult  business  for 
you  as  for  me,"  he  said,  smiling  sadly. 

They  left  the  restaurant,  and  sauntered  out 
together. 

"  And  to-morrow  you  will  be  gone,"  he  said. 

"  I  shall  miss  you,"  Bernardine  said. 

"  That  is  simply  a  question  of  time,"  he 
remarked.  "  I  shall  probably  miss  you  at  first. 
But  we  adjust  ourselves  easily  to  altered 
circumstances  :  mercifully.'  A  few  days,  a  few 
weeks  at  most,  and  then  that  state  of  becoming 
^.ccustomed,  called  by  pious  folk,  resignation." 

"Then  you  think  that  the  every-day 
companionship,  the  every-day  exchange  of 
thoughts  and  ideas,  counts  for  little  or 
nothing  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  That  is  about  the.  colour  of  it,"  he  answered, 
in  his  old  gruff  way. 

She  thought  of   his  words   when   she   was 

o 


W4  SHIPS  THAT  PASS  HI  THE  NIGHT. 

packing :  tlie  many  pleasant  hours  were  to  count 
for  nothing  ;  for  nothing  the  little  bits  of  fun, 
the  little  displays  ftf  temper  and  vexation,  the 
snatches  of  serious  talk,  the  contradictions,  and 
all  the  petty  detniis  of  six  months'  close  com- 
panionship. 

He  was  not  dif&rent  from  the  others  who  had 
parted  from  her  so  lightly.  No  wonder,  then, 
that  he  could  sympathise  with  them. 

That  last  niglit  at  Petershof,  Bernardino 
hardened  her  heart  against  the  Disngi'eeable 
Man. 

''  I  am  glad  I  am  able  to  do  so,"  she  said  to 
herself.     "  It  makes  it  easier  for  me  to  go." 

Then  the  vision' of  a  forlorn  figure  rose  before 
her.  And  the  little  hard  heart  softened  at 
once. 

In  the  morning  they  breakfasted  together  as 
usual.  There  was  scarcely  any  conversation 
between  them.  He  asked  for  her  address,  and 
she  told  him  that  she  was  going  back  to  her 
uncle  who  kept  the'  second-hand  book-shop  in 
Stone  Street. 

*'I  will  send   you  a  guide-book  from    the 


*' SHIPS  THAT  SPEAK  EACH  OTHER  IN  PASSING."   195 

Tyrol,"  he  explained.  "  I  sKall  be  going  there 
in  a  week  or  two  to  see  my  mother." 

"  I  hope  you  will  find  her  In  good  health,"  she 
said. 

Then  It  suddenly  flashed  across  her  mind 
what  he  had  told  her  about  his  one  '  great 
sacrifice  for  his  mother's  sake.  She  looked  up 
at  him,  and  he  met  her  glance  without  flinch- 
ing. 

He  said  good-bye  to  her  at  the  foot  of  the 
staircase. 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever  shakeii 
hands  with  hira. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  said  gently,  *'  Good  luck  to 
you." 

"  Good-bye,"  she  answered. 

He  went  up  the  stairs,  and  turned  round  as 
though  he  wished  to  say  something  more.  But 
he  changed  his  mind,  and  kept  his  own 
counsel. 

An  hour  later  Bernardlne  l^ffc  Petershof. 
Only  the  concierge  of  the  Kurhaus  saw  her  off 
at  the  station. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

A   LOVE-LETTER. 

Two  days  after  Bernardlne  had  left  Petershof, 
the  snows  began  to  melt.  Nothing-  could 
be  drearier  than  that  process  :  nothing  more 
desolate  than  the  outlook. 

The  Disagreeable  Man  sat  in  his  bedioom 
trying  to  read  Carpenter's  Anatomy.  It  failed 
to  hold  him.  Then  he  looked  out  of  the 
window,  and  listened  to  the  dripping  of  the 
icicles.  At  last  he  took  a  pen,  and  wrote  aa 
follows  : 

"Little  Comrade,  little  Playmate, 
I  could  not  believe  that  you  ^,vere  really  going. 
When  you  first  said  that  you  wo-oid  soon  be 


j4  LOVE-LETTER.  197 

leaving,  T  listened  with  unconcern,  because  it 
did  not  seem  possible  that  the  time  could  come 
when  we  should  not  be  together ;  that  the 
days  would  come  and  go,  and  that  I  should  not 
know  how  you  were ;  whether  you  wei^e  better, 
and  more  hopeful  about  your  life  and  your  work, 
or  whether  the  old  misery  of  indifference  and 
ill-health  was, still  clinging  to  you;  whether 
your  voice  was  strong  as  of  one  who  had  slept 
well  and  felt  refreshed,  or  whether  it  was  weak 
like  that  of  one  who  had  watched  through  the 
long  night. 

"It  did  not  seem  possible  that  such  a  time 
could  come.  Many  cruel  things  have  happened 
to  me,  as  to  scores  of  others,  but  this  is  the  most 
cruel  of  all.  Against  my  wish  and  against  my 
knowledge,  you  have  crept  into  my  life  as  a 
necessity,  and  now  I  have  to  give  you  up.  You 
are  better,  God  bless  you,  and  you  go  back  to  a 
fuller  life,  and  to  carry  on  your  work,  and  to 
put  to  account  those  talents  which  no  one 
realises  more  than  I  do  ;  and  as  for  myself, 
God  help  me,  I  am  left  to  wither  away. 

"  You  little  one,  you  dear  little  one,  I  never 


103  SHIPS  THA  T  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

wished  to  love  you.  I  had  never  loved  any  one, 
never  drawn  near  to  any  one.  I  have  lived 
lonely  all  my  young  life  ;  for  I  aip  only  a  ^''oung 
man  yet.  I  said  to  myself  time  after  time : 
'  I  will  not  love  her.  It  will  not  do  me  any 
good,  nor  her  any  good.'  And  then  in  my 
state  of  health,  what  right  had  I  to  think  of 
marriage,  and  making  a  home  for  myself?  Of 
course  that  was  out  of  the  question.  And  then 
I  thought,  that  because  I  was  a  doomed  man, 
cut  off  from  the  pleasures  Avhich  make  a  lovely 
thing  of  life,  it  did  not  follow  that  I  might  not 
love  you  in  my  own  quiet  way,  hugging  my 
secret  to  myself,  until  the  love  became  all  the 
greater  because  it  ivas  my  secret.  I  reasoned 
about  it  too  :  it  could  not  harm  you  that  I  loved 
you.  No  one  -could  be  the  worse  for  being 
loved.  So  little  by  little  I  yielded  myself  this 
luxury  ;  and  my  heart  once  so  dried  up,  began 
to  flower  again ;  yes,  little  one,  you  will  smile 
when  I  tell  you  that  my  heart  broke  out  into 
flower. 

"  When  I  think  of  it  all  now,  I  am  not  sorry 
that  I  let  m_yself  go.     At  least  I  have  learnt 


A  LOVE-LETTER.  199 

what  I  knew  nothing  of  before  :  now  I  under- 
stand what  people  mean  when  they  say  that 
love  adds  a  dignity  to' life  which  nothing  else 
can  give.  That  dignity  is  mine  now,  nothing 
can  take  it  from  me  ;  it  is  my  own.  You  are 
my  very  own;  I  love  everything  about  you. 
From  the  beginning  I  recognized  that  you  were 
clever  and  capable.  Though  I  often  made  fun 
of  what  you  said,  that  was  simply  a  way  I  had; 
and  when  I  saw  you  did  not  mind,  I  continued 
in  that  way,  hoping  always  to  vex  you;  your 
good  temper  provoked  me,  because  I  knew  that 
you  made  allowances  for  me  being  a  Petershof 
invalid.  You  would  never  have  suffered  a 
strong  man  Lo  criticize  you  as  I  did  ;  you  would 
have  flown  at  him,  for  you  are  a  feverish  little 
child  :  not  a  quiet  woolly  lamb.  At  first  I  was 
wild  that  you  should  make  allowances  for  me. 
And  then  I  gave  in,  as  weak  men  are  obliged. 
When  you  came,  I  saw  that  your  troubles  and 
sufferings  would  make  you  bitter.  Do  you  know 
whodielped  to  cure  you  ?  It  ivas  I.  I  have  seen 
that  often  before.  That  is  the  one  little  bit  of 
good  I  liave  done  m  the  world  :    I  have  helped 


200  SHIPS  THA  T  PASS  IM  THE  NIGHT. 

to  cure  cynicism.  You  were  shocked  at  the 
things  I  said,  and  you  were  saved  I  did  not 
save  you  intentionally,  so  I  am  not  posing  as  a 
philanthropist.  I  merely  mention  that  you 
came  here  hard,  and  you  went  back  tender 
That  was  partly  because  you  have  lived  in  the 
City  of  Suffering.  Some  people  live  there  and 
learn  nothing.  But  you  would  learn  to  feel 
only  too  much.  I  wish  that  your  capacity  for 
feeling  were  less;  but  then  you  would  not  be 
yourself,  your  present  self  I  mean,  for  you  have 
changed  even  since  1  have  known  you.  Every 
week  you  seemed  to  become  more  gentle.  You 
thought  me  rough  and  gruff  at  parting,  little 
comrade  :  I  meant  to  be  so.  If  you  had  only 
known,  there  was  a.  whole  world  of  tenderness 
for  you  in  my  heart.  I  could  not  trust  myself  to 
be  tender  to  you  ;  you  would  have  guessed  my 
secret.  And  I  wanted  you  to  go  away  undis- 
turbed. You  do  not, feel  things  lightly,  and 
it  was  best  for  you  that  you  should  harden  your 
heart  against  me. 

"  If  you  could  harden  your  heart  against  me. 
ButI  am  not  sure  about  that.    I  believe  that .... 


A  LOVE-LETTER.  201 

Ah,  well,  I'm  a  foolish  fellow ;   but  some  day, 

dear,  I'll  tell  you  what  I  think I  have 

treasured  many  of  your  sayings  in  my  memory. 
I  can  never  be  as  though  I  had  never  known 
you.  Many  of  your  words  I  have  repeated  to 
myself  afterwards  until  they  .  seemed  to 
represent  my  own  thoughts.  I  specially 
remember  what  you  said  about  God  having 
made  us  lonely,  so  that  we  might  be  obliged  to 
turn  to  him.  For  we  are  all  lonely,  though 
some  of  us  not  quite  so  much  as  otheri^.  You 
yourself  spoke  often  of  being  lonely.  Oh,  my 
own  little  one  !  Your  loneliness  is  nothing 
compared  to  mine.  How  often  I  could  have 
told  you  that. 

"  I  have  never  seen  any  of  your  work,  but  I 
think  you  have  now  something  to  say  to 
others,  and  that  you  will  say  it  well.  And 
if  you  have  the  courage  to  be  simple  when  it 
comes  to  the  point,  you  will  succeed.  KwA  I 
believe  you  will  have  the  courage,  I  believe 
everything  of  you. 

"But  whatever  you  do  or  do  not,  you  will 
always  be  the  same  to  me  :  my  own  little  one, 


202  SHIPS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

my  very  own.  I  have  been  waitincr  all  my  llf^ 
for  you  ;  and  I  have  given  you  my  heart 
entire.  If  you  only  knew  that,  you  could  not 
call  yourself  lonely  any  more.  If  an^  one  was 
ever  loved,  it  is  you,  dear  heart. 

"Do  you  remember  how  those  peasants  at  the 
Gasthaus  thought  we  were  betrothed  1  I 
thought  that  might  annoy  you  ;  and  though  I 
was  relieved  at  the  time,  still,  later  on,  I 
wished  you  had  been  annoyed.  That  would 
have  shown  that  you  were  not  indifferent. 
From  that  time  my  love  for  you  grew  apace. 
You  must  not  mind  me  telling  you  so  often  ; 
I  must  go  on  telling  you.  Just  think, 
dear,  this  is  the  first  love-letter  I  have  ever 
written  :  and  every  word  of  love  is  a  whole 
world  of  love.  I  shall  nevfer  call  my  life  a 
failure  now.  I  may  have  failed  in  everything 
else,  but  not  in  loving.  Oh,  little  one,  it  can't 
be  that  I  am  not  to  be  with  you,  and  not  to 
have  you  for  my  own  !  And  yet  how  can  that 
be  ?  It  is  not  I  who  may  hold  you  in  my  arms. 
Some  strong  man  must  love  and'  wrap  you 
round    with    tenderness    and    softness.      You 


A  LOVE-LETTE/i.  203 

little  Independent  child,  in  spite  of  all  your 
wonderful  views  and  theories,  you  will  soon  be 
glad  to  lean  on  some  one  for  comfort  and 
sympathy.  And  then  perhaps  that  troubled 
little  spirit  of  yours  may  find  its  rest.  WoulcJ 
to  God  I  were  that  strong  man  ! 

"  But  because  I  love  you,  my  own  little 
darling,  I  will  not  spoil  your  life.  I  won't  ask 
you  to  give  me  even  one  thought.  But  if  I 
believed  that  it  were  of  any  good  to  say  a 
prayei",  I  should  pray  that  you  may  soon  find 
that  strong  man  ;  for  it  is  not  well  for  any  of 
us  to  stand  alone.  There  comes  a  time  when 
the  loneliness  is  more  than  wc  can  bear. 

"  There  is  one  thing  I  want  you  to  know  : 
indeed  I  am^  not  the  gruff  fellow  I  have  so  often 
seemed.  Do  believe  that.  Do  you  remember 
how  I  told  you  that  I  dreamed  of  losmg  you  ? 
And  now  the  dream  has  come  true.  I  am 
always  looking  for  you,  and  cannot  find  you. 

"  You  have  been  very  good  to  me  ;  so  patient, 
and  genial,  and  frank.  No  one  before  has  ever 
been  so  good.  Even  if  I  did  not  love  you,  I 
should  say  that. 


201  smrS  THA  T  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

"  But  I  do  love  you,  no  one  can  take  that 
from  nie  :  it  is  my  own  dignity,  the  crown  of 
my  life.  Such  a  poor  life  ....  no,  no,  I  won't 
say  that  now.  I  cannot  pity  myself  now  .... 
no,  I  cannot.  ..." 

The  Disagreeable  Man  stopped  writing,  and 
the  pen  dropped  on  the  table. 

He  buried  his  tear-stained  face  in  his  hands. 
He  cried  his  heart  out,  this  Disagreeable  Man. 

Then  he  took  the  letter  which  he  had  just 
been  writing,  and  he  tore  it  into  fragments. 


END  OF  PAllT   T. 


PART  II. 
CHAPTER    L 

THE   DUSTING   OF   THE   BOOKS. 

It  was  now  moi'e  than  three  weeks  since 
Bernardine's  return  to  London.  She  had  gone 
back  to  her  old  home,  at  her  uncle's  second- 
hand book-shop.  She  spent  her  time  in 
dusting  the  books,  and  arranging  them  in  some 
kind  of  order ;  for  old  Zerviah  Holme  had 
ceased  to  interest  himself  much  in  his  belong- 
ings, and  sat  in  the  little  inner  room  reading  as 
usual  Gibbon's  "  History  of  Rome."  Customers 
might  please  themselves  aboy,t  coming  :  Zerviah 
Holme  had  never  cared  about  amassing  money, 
and  now  he  cared  even  less  tlian  before.  A 
frugal  breakfast,  a  frugal  dinner,  a  box   full   of 


:Ofi  SHIPS  THAT  PASS  W  THE  NIGHT. 

fiiiaff,  and  a  shelf  full  of  Gibbon  were  the  oli 
man's  only  requirements  :  an  undemanding  life, 
and  therefore  a  loveless  one  ;  since  the  less  we 
ask  for,  the  less  we  get. 

When  Malvina  his  wife  died,  people  said  : 
"  He  will  miss  her." 

But  he  did  not  seem  to  miss  her  :  he  took  his 
breg^kfast,  his  pinch  of  snuff,  his  Gibbon,  in 
precisely  the  same  way  as  before,  and  in  the 
same  quantities. 

When  Bernardine  first  fell  '  ill,  people 
said  :  "  He  will  be  sorry.  He  is  fond  of  her  in 
his  own  queer  way." 

But  he  did  not  seem  to  be  sorry.  He  did  not 
understand  anything  about  illness.  The  thought 
of  it  worried  him  ;  so  he  put  it  from  him. 
He  remembered  vaguely  that  '  Bernardine's 
father  had  suddenly  become  ill,  that  his 
powers  had  all  failed  him,  «nd  that  he  lingered 
on,  just  a  wreck  of  humanity,  and  then  died. 
That  was  twenty  years  ago.  Then  he  thought 
of  Bernardine,  and  said  to  himself,  "  History 
repeats  itself."     That  was  all. 

Unkind  ?      No ;    for   when  it  was  told  him 


THE  DUSTING  OF  THn BOOKS.  207 

that  she  must  go  away,  he  looked  at,  lier 
wonderingly,  and  then  went  out.  It  was  very 
rarely  that  he  went  out.  He  came  back  with 
fifty  pounds, 

"  When  that  is  done,"  he  told  her,  "  I  can 
find  more.'* 

When  she  went  away,  people  said :  "  He  will 
be  lonely  ' 

But  he  did  not  seem  to  be  lonely,  They 
asked  him  once,  and  he  said :  "  I  always  have 
Gibbon." 

And  when  she  came  back,  they  said :  "  He 
will  be  glad." 

But  her  return  seemed  to  make  no  difference 
to  him. 

He  Ipoked  at  her  in  his  usual  sightless 
manner,  and  asked  her  what  she  intended  to 
do. 

"  I  shall  dust  the  books,"  she  said. 

"Ah,  I  dare  say  they  want  it,"  he  remarked. 

**I  shall  get  a  little  teaching  to  do,"  she 
continued.     "And  I  shall  take  care  of  you." 

"  Ah,"  he  said  vaguely.  He  did  not  under- 
stand what  she  meant.     She  hud  never  been 


208  SHIPS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

very  near  to  h[m,  and  he  had  never  been  very 
near  to  her.  He  had  taken  but  httle  notice  of 
her  comings  and  goings ;  she  had  either  never 
tried  to  win  his  interest  or  had  failed :  probably 
the  latter.  Now  she  was  going  to  take  care  of 
him. 

This  was  the  home  to  which  Bernardine  had 
returned.  She  came  back  with  many  resolu- 
tions to  help  to  make  his  old  age  bright.  She 
looked  back  now,  and  saw  how  little  she  had 
given  of  herself  to  her  aunt  and  her  uncle. 
Aunt  Malvina  was  dead,  and  Bernardine  did 
not  reo-ret  her.     Uncle  Zerviah  was  here  still : 

O 

she  would  be  tender  with  him,  and  win  his 
affection.  She  thought  she  could  not  begin 
better  than  by  looking  after  his  books.  Each 
/one  was  dusted  carefully.  The  dingy  old  shop 
was  restored  to  cleanliness.  Bernardine 
became  interested  in  her  task.  "  I  will  work 
up  the  business,"  she  thought.  She  did  not 
care  in  the  least  about  the  books ;  she  never 
looked  into  them  except  to  clean  them  ;  but 
she  was  thankful  to  have  the  occupation  at 
hand :  something  to  help  her  over  a  difficult 


tHE  DUSTING  OF  THE  BOOKS.  20!) 

time.  For  the  most  trylnof  part  of  an  Illness  is 
when  we  are  ill  no  longer  ;  when  there  is  no 
excuse  for  being  idle  and  listless  ;  when,  in  fact, 
we  could  work  if  we  would  :  then  is  the 
moment  for  us  to  begin  on  anything  which 
presents  itself,  until  we  have  the  courage  and 
the  inclination  to  go  back  to  our  own  particular 
work  :  tliut  which  we  have  longed  to  do,  and 
about  wliich  we  now  care  nothing. 

So  Bernardino  dusted  books,  and  sometimes 
sold  them  All  the  time  she  thought  of  the 
Disao-reeable  Man.  She  missed  him  in  her 
life.  She  had  never  loved  before,  and  she 
loved  him.  The  forlorn  figure  rose  before 
her,  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  Sometimes 
the  tears  fell  on  the  books,  and  spotted  them. 

Still,  on  tlie  whole  she  was  bright;  but  she 
found  things  difficult.  She  had  lost  her  old 
enthusiasms,  and  nothing  yet  had  taken  their 
{jjace.  She  went  back  to  the  circle  of  her 
ucquaintances,  and  found  that  she  had  slipped 
away  from  touch  with  them.  Whilst  she  had 
been  ill,  they  had  been  busily  at  work  on 
matters  social  and   educational    and    political. 


210  SfflPS  TIJAT  PASS  W  THE  NIGHT, 

She  thought  them  hard,  the  women  especially : 
they  thought  her  weak.  They  were  dis- 
appointed in  her  ;  she  was  now  looking  for  the 
more  human  qualities  in  them,  and  she,  too,  was 
disappointed. 

"You  have  changed,"  they  said  to  her  :  "  but 
then  of  course  you  have  been  ill,  haven't  you  ?  " 

With  these  strong,  active  people,  to  be  ill  and 
useless  is  a  reproach.  And  Bernardino  felt  it 
as  such.  But  she  had  changed,  and  she  her- 
self perceived  it  in  many  ways.  It  was  not 
that  she  was  necessarily  better,  but  that  she 
was  different ;  probably  more  human,  and  pro- 
bably less  self-confident.  She  had  lived  :n  a 
world  of  books,  and  she  had  burst  througlrthat 
bondage  and  come  out  into  a  wider  and  a  freer 
land. 

New  sorts  of  interests  came  into  her  life. 
What  she  had  lost  in  strength,  she  had  gained 
in  tenderness.  Her  very  manner  was-  gentler, 
her  mode  of  speech  less  assertive.  At  least, 
this  was  the  criticism  of  those  who  had  liked 
her  but  little  before  her  illness. 

•*  She  has  learnt,"  they  said  amongst  th^em- 


THE  DUSTING  OF  THE  BOOKS.  £11 

selves.     And  tliey   were   not  scholars.     They 
knew. 

These,  two  or  three  of  them,  drew  her 
nearer  to  them.  She  was  alone  there  with  the 
old  man,  and,  though  better,  needed  care* 
They  mothered  her  as  well  as  they  could,  at 
first  timidly,  and  then  with  that  sweet 
despotism  which  is  for  us  all  an  easy  yoke  to 
bear.  They  were  drawn  to  |her  as  they  had 
never  been  drawn  before.  They  felt  that  she 
was  no  longer  analysing  them,  weighing  them 
in  her  intellectual  balance,  and  finding  them 
wanting ;  so  they  were  free  with  her  now,  and 
revealed  to  her  qualities  at  which  she  had 
never  guessed  before. 

As  the  days  went  on,  Zerviah  began  to  notice 
that  things  were  somehow  different.  He  found 
some  flowers  near  his  table.  He  was  reading 
about  Nero  at  the  time ;  but  he  put  aside  his 
Gibbon,  and  fondled  the  flowers  instead. 
Bernardine  did  not  know  that. 

One  morning  when  she  was  out,  he  went 
into  the  shop  and  saw  a  great  change  there. 
Some  one  had  been  busy  at  work.     The  old 

r  2 


Hi  SI/IPS  THA  T  PASS  IN  THE  WIGHT. 

man  was  pleased  :  lie  loved  his  books,  tho\igb 
of  late  he  had  neglected  them, 

■'  She  never  used  to  take  any  interest  in 
them,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  I  wonder  -why  she 
does  now  ? " 

He  began  to  count  upon  seeing  her.  When 
Bhe  came  back  from  her  outings,  he  was  glad. 
But  she  did  not  know.  If  he  had  given  any 
.sign  of  welcome  to  her  during  those  first 
difficult  days,  it  vrould  have  been  a  gi^eat 
encouragement  to  her. 

He  watched  her  feeding  the  sparrows.  One 
day  when  she  was  not  there,  he  went  and  did 
the  same.  Another  day  when  she  had  forgot- 
ten, he  surprised  her  by  reminding  her. 

"  You  have  forgotten  to  feed  the  sparrows," 
he  said.     "  They  must  be  quite  hungry.'' 

That  seemed  to  break  the  ice  a  little.  The 
next  morning  Avhen  she  was  arranging  some 
books  in  the  old  shop,  he  came  in  and  watched 
her. 

"It  is  a  comfort  to  have  you,"  he  said. 
That  was  all  he  said,  but  Bernardino  flushed 
with  pleasure, 


THE  DUSTING  OF  THE  BOOKS.  413 

**  I  wish  I  had  been  more  to  ydu  all  these 
years,"  she  said  gently. 

He  did  not  quite  take  tha,t  in  :,  and  returned 
hastily  to  Gibbon. 

Then  they  began  to  stroll  out  together.  They 
had  nothing  to  talk  about :  he  was  not  inter- 
ested in  the  outside  world,  and  she  was  not 
interested  in  Roman  History.  But  they  were 
trying  to  get  nearer  to  each  other  :  they  had 
lived  years  together,  but  they  had  never 
advanced  a  step  ;  now  they  were  trying,  she 
consciously,  he  unconsciously.  But  it  was  a 
slow  process,  and  pathetic,  as  everything  human 
is. 

"  If  we  could  only  find  some  subject  which 
Ave  both  liked,"  Bernardine  thought  to  herself 
"  That  might  knit  us  together." 

Well,  they  found  a  subject;  though,  perhaps, 
it  was  an  unlikely  one.  The  cart-horses*: 
those  great,  sti'ong,  patient  toilers  of  the  road 
attracted  their  attention,  and  after  that  no 
walk  was  without  its  pleasure  or  interest.  The 
brewers'  horses  were  the  favourites,  though 
there  were   others,  too,  which  met   with    their 


214  SfflPS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

approval.  He  began  to  know  and  recoo^nize 
them.  He  was  almost  like  a  child  in  his  new- 
found interest.  On  Whit  Monday  they  both 
went  to  the  cart-horse  parade  in  Regent's 
Park.  They  talked  about  the  enjoyment  for' 
days  afterwards. 

"  Next  year,"  he  told  her,  "  we  must  sub- 
scribe to  the  fund,  even  if  we  have  to  sell  a 
book." 

He  did  not  like  to  sell  his  books :  ho 
parted  with  them  painfully,  as  some  people  part 
with  their  illusions. 

Bernardino  bought  a  paper  for  'herself 
every  day ;  but  one  evening  she  camo 
in  without  one.  She  had  been  seeing 
after  some  teaching,  and  .had  without  aiiy 
difficulty  succeeded  in  getting  some  temporary 
li^ht  work  at  one  of  the  hicrh  schools.  She 
forgot  to  buy  her  newspaper. 

The  old  man  noticed  this.  He  put  on  his 
shabby  felt  hat,,  and  went  down  the  street,  and 
brought  in  a  copy  of  the  Daily  News. 

"I  don't  remember  what  you  like,  but  will  this 
do  ? "  he  asked. 


THE  DUSTING  OF  THE  BOOKS.  2l5 

He  was  quite  proud  of  himself  for  showing 
her  this  atteution,  almost  as  proud  as  the 
Disarp-ecable  Man,  when  he  did  something 
kind  and  thoughtful. 

Bernardine  thouirht  of  him,  and  the' tears 
came  into  her  eyes  at  once.  When  did  she  not 
think  of  him  ?  Then  she  glanced' at  the  front 
sheet,  and  in  the  death  column  her  eye  rested 
on  his  name :  qnd  she  read  that  Robert  AUitsen's 
mother  had  passed  away.  So  the  Disagreeable 
Man  had  won  his  freedom  at.  last.  His  words 
echoed  back  to  her  : 

"  But  I  know   how   to  wait  :  if  I  have  not 
learnt   anything   else,    I    have   learnt   how   tot 
wait.     And  some   day   I   shall  be  free.     And 
then  .  .  .  ." 


CHAPTER  Ii: 

BERNARDINE   BEGINS   HER   COOK. 

After  the  •announcement  of  Mi's.  Allitsen's 
death,  Bernardlne  lived  in  a  misery  of  suspense. 
•Every  day  she  scanned  the  obituary,  fearing  to 
find  the  record  of  another  death,  fearinc^  and  yet 
wishing  to  know.  The  Disacrreeable  Man  had 
yearned  for  his  freedom  these  many  years,  and 
now  he  vi^as  at  liberty  to  do  what  he  chose  with 
his  poor  life.  It  was  of  no  value  to  him.  Many 
a  time  she  sat  and  shuddered.  Many  a  time  she 
befran  to  write  to  him.  Then  she  i^emembered 
that  after  all  he  had  cared  nothing  for  her 
corbpanionship.  He  would  not  wish  to  hear 
from  her.  ,,  And  besides,  what  had  she  to  say  to 
him'? 


BEKNARDINE  BEGINS  HEK  BOOK'.  217 

A  feeling  of  desolation  came  over  her.  It 
was  not  enough  for  her  to  take  care  of  the  old 
man  who  was  drawing  nearer  to  her  every  day; 
nor  was  it  enough  for  her  to  dust  the  books, 
and  serve  any  chance  customers  who  might 
look  in.  In  the  midst  of  her  trouble  she 
remembered  some  of  her  old  ambitions  ;  and 
she  turned  to  them  for  comfort  as  we  turn  to 
old  friends. 

"  I  will  try  to  begin  my  book,"  she  said  to 
herself  ..  "  If  I  can  only  get  interested  in  it,  I 
shall  forget  my  anxiety." 

But  the  love  of  her  work  had  left  her. 
Bernardine  fretted.  She  sat  in  the  old  book- 
shop, her  pen  unused,  her  paper  uncovered. 
She  was  very  miserable. 

Then  one  evening  when  she  was  feeling  that 
it  was  of  no  use  trying  to  force  herself  to 
begin  her  book,  she  took  her  pea  suddenly,  and 
wrote  the  foUowing  prologue. 


CHAPTER  in. 

FAILUBE  AND  SUCCESS  :   A  TROLOGUB. 

t'AlLURE  and  Success  passed  away  from  Earth, 
t\nd  found  themselves  in  a  Foreign  Land. 
Success  still  Avore  her  laurel-wreath  which 
she  had  won  on  Earth,  There  was  a  look  of 
ease  about  her  whole  appearance  ;  and  there 
was  a  snaile  of  pleasure  and  satisfaction  on 
Ker  face,  as  though  she  knew  she  had  done 
well  and  had  deserved  her  honours. 

Failure's  head  was  bowed  :  no  laurel-wreath 
encircled  it.  Her  face  was  wan,  and  pain- 
engraven.  She  had  once  been  beautiful  and 
hopeful,  but  she  had  long  since  lost  both  hope 
and  beauty.  They  stood  together,  these  two, 
waiting  for  an  audience  witli  the  Sovereign  of 


FAILURE  AND  SUCCESS:  A  PROLOGUE.         8I| 

the   Foreign  Land.     An  old  grey-haired  mAh 
came  to  them  and  asked  their  names. 

"  I  am  Success,"  said  Success,  advanAng  a 
step  forward,  and  smiling  at  him,  and  pointing 
to  her  laurel-wreath. 
He  shook  his  head. 

"  Ah,"  he  said,  "  do.  not  he  too  confident. 
Very  often  things  go  hy  opposites  in  this  Idnd. 
\Vhat  you  call  Success,  we  often  call  Failure  ; 
what  you  call  Failure,  we  call  Success.  Do 
you  see  those  two  men  waiting  there  ?  The 
one  nearer  to  us  was  thought  to  be  a  good  man 
in  your  world ;  the  other  was  generally 
accounted  bad.  But  here  we  call  the  bad  man 
good,  and  the  good  man  bad.  That  seems 
strange  to  you.  Well,  then,  look  yonder.  You 
considered  that  statesman  to  be  sincere ;  but 
we  say  he  was  insincere.  We  chose  as  cur 
poet-laureate  a  man  at  whom  your  world 
scoffed.  .  Ay,  and  those  flowers  yonder :  for  us 
they  have  a  fragrant  charm;  we  love  to  see 
them  near  us.  But  you  do  not  even  take  the 
trouble  to  pluck  them  from  the  hedges  where 
they  grow  in  rich  profusion.  '  So,  you  see,  'what 


220  SHIPS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

we  value  as  a  treasure,  you  do  not  value   at 
all." 

Then  he  turned  to  Failure. 

"And  your  name  ?  "  he  asked  kindly,  though 
indeed  he  must  have  known  it. 

*'  I  am  Failure,"  she  said  sadly. 

He  took  her  by  the  hand. 

*'  CtDnie,.novv,  Success,"  he  said  to  her  :  "  let 
me  lead  you  into  the  Presence-Chamber." 

Then  she  who  had  been  called  Failure,  and 
was  now  called  Success,  lifted  up  her  bowed 
head,  and  raised  her  weary  frame,  and  smiled  at 
the  music  of  her  new  name.  And  with  that 
smile  she  regained  her  beauty  and  her  hope. 
And  hope  having  come  back  to  her,  all  her 
Btrength  returned. 

"  But  what  of  her  ? "  she  asked  regretfully  of 
the  old  gi'ey-haired  man  ;  "  must  she  be  left  ^  " 

"She  will  learn,"  the  old  man  whispered. 
"  She  is  learning  already.  Come,  now  :  we 
must  not  linger." 

So  she  of  the  new  name  passed  into  the 
Presence^Glmmber. 

But  the  Sovereisfn  said : 


FAILURE  AND  SUCCESS:  A  PROLOGUE.  221 

"  The  world  needs  you,  dear  and  honoured 
worker.  You  know  your  real  name  :  do  not 
heed  wliat  the  world  may  call  you.  Go  back 
and  work,  but  take  with  you  this  time 
unconquerable  hope." 

So  she  went  back  and  worked,  taking  with 
her  unconquerable  hope,  and  the  sweet  re- 
membrance^ of  the  Sovereign's  words,  and  the 
gracious  music  of  her  Real  Name. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  DISAGREEABLE  MAN  GIVES  UP  HIS  FREEDOM. 

The  morning  after  Bernardine  began  hf  r  book, 
she  and  old  Zerviah  were  sitting  together  in 
the  shop.  He  had  come  from  the  httle  inner 
room  where  he  had  been  reading  Gibbon  for  the 
last  two  hours.  He  still  held  the  volume  in 
his  hand  ;  but  he  did  not  continue  reading, 
he  watched  her  arranging  the  pages  of  a 
dilapidated  book. 

Suddenly  she  looked  up  from  her  work. 

"Uncle  Zerviah,"  she  said  brusquely,  "you 
have  lived  throufrh  a  lont?  life,  and  must  have 
passed  througli  many  different  experiences. 
Wasi  there  ever  a  time  when  you  cared  for 
people  rather  than  books  1  " 


DISAGREEABLE  MAN  GIVES  UP  HIS  FREEDOM.    2» 

"  Yes,"  he  answered  a  little  uneasily.  He 
■was  not  accustomed  to  have  questions  asked  of 
him. 

"  Tell  me  about  it,"  she  said. 

"  It  was  long  ago,"  he  said  half  dreamily, 
"long  before  I  married  Malvina.  And  she  died. 
That  was  all." 

"  That  was  all,"  repeated  Bernardine,  looking 
at  him  wonderingly.  Then  she  drew  nearer  to 
him. 

"  And  you  have  loved,  Uncle  Zerviah  ?  And 
you  were  loved  ?  " 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  he  answered,  softly. 

**  Then  you  would  not  laugh  at  me  if  I  were 
to  unburden  my  heart  to  you  ?  " 

For  answer,  she  felt  the  touch  of  his  old 
hand  on  her  head.  And  thus  encouraged,  she 
told  him  the  story  of  the  Disagreeable  Man. 
She  told  him  how  she  had  never  before  loved 
any  one  until  she  loved  the  Disagreeable 
Man. 

It  was  all  very  quietly  told,  in  a  simple  and 
dignified  manner :  nevertheless,  for  all  that,  it 
was  an  unburdening  of  her  heart ;   her  listener 


224  SHIPS  THA  T  PASS  JN  THE  NIGHT. 

being  an  old  scholar  who  had  almost  forgotten 
the  very  name  of  love. 

She  was  still  talking,  and  he  was  still 
listening,  when  the  shop  door  creaked.  Zerviah 
crept  quietly  away,  and  Bernaidine  looked  up. 

The  Disagreeable  Man  stood  at  the  counter. 

"  You  little  thing,"  he  said,  "  I  have  come 
to  see  you.  It  is  eight  years  since  I  was  in 
England." 

Bernardlne  leaned  over  the  counter. 

"  And  you  ought  not  to  be  here  now,"  she 
said,  looking  at  his  thin  face.  He  seemed  to 
have  shrunk  away  since  she  had  last  seen  him. 

"  I  am  free  to  do  what  I  choose,"  he  said. 
*'  My  mother  is  dead." 

"1  know,"  Bemardine  said  gently.  "But 
you  are  not  free." 

He  made  no  answer  to  that,  but  slipped  into 
the  chair. 

"  You  look  tired,"  he  said.  **  What  have  you 
been  doing  ? " 

"  I  have  been  dusting  the  books,"  she 
finswered,  smiling  at'  him.  "  You  I'emember 
you  told  me  I  should  be  content  ^o  do  that. 


DISAGREEABLE  MAN  GIVES  UP  lilS  FREEDOM.     225 

The  very  oldest  and  shabbiest  have  had  my 
tenderest  care.  I  found  the  shop  in  disorder. 
You  see  it  now." 

"  I  should  not  call  it  particularly  tidy  now," 
he  said  grimly.  "  Still,  I  suppose  you  have 
done  your  best.      Well,  and  what  else  ?  " 

"  I  have  been  trying  to  take  care  of  my  old 
uncle,"  she  said.  "  We  are  just  beginning  to 
understand  each  other  a  little.  And  he  is 
beginning  to  feel  glad  to  have  me.  When  I 
first  discovered  that,  the  days  became  easier  to 
me.  It  makes  us  into  dignified  persons  when 
we  find  out  that  there  is  a  place  for  us  to  fill." 

"  Some  people  never  find  it  out,"  he  said. 

"  Probably,  like  myself,  they  went  on  for  a 
long  time,  without  caring,"  she  answered.  "  I 
think  I  have  had  more  luck  than  I  deserve." 

"  Well,"  said  the  Disagreeable  Man.  "  And 
you  are  glad  to  take  up  your  life  again  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  said  quietly.  "  I  have  not  got  aa 
far  as  that  yet.  But  I  believe  that  after  some 
little  time  I  may  be  glad  :  I  hope  so,  I  am 
working  for  that.  Sometimes  I  begin  to  have 
a  keen  interest  in  everything.     I  wake  up  with 


226  SflJPS  THA  T  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT.  . 

an  enthusiasm.     After  about  two  hours  I  have 
lost  it  again." 

"  Poor  little  child,"  he  said  tenderly.  "  I,  too, 
know  what  that  is.  "  But  you  icill  get  back  to 
gladness :  not  the  same  kind  of  satisfaction 
as  before ;  but  some  other  satisfaction,  that 
compensation  which  is  said  to  be  included  in  the 
scheme." 

"  And   I   have   begun   my   book,^'  she  said, 
pointing  to  a  few  sheets  lying  on  the  counter 
that  is  to  say,  I  have  written  the  Prologue." 

"  Then  the  dusting  of  the  book?  has  not 
sufficed  ?"  he  said,  scanning  her  curiously. 

"  I  wanted  not  to  think  of  myself," 
Bernardino  said.  "  2\o\v  that  I  have  begun 
it,  I  shall  enjoy  going  on  with  it.  .1  hope  it 
will  be  a  companion  to  me." 

"  I  wonder  whether  you  will  make  a  failure 
or  a  success  of  it?"  he  remarked.  "I  wish 
I  could  have  seen." 

"So  you  will,"  she' said.  "I  shall  finish  it, 
and  you  will  read  It  in  Petershof " 

"  1  shall  not  be  going  back  to  Petershof,"  he 
said,     "  Why  should  I  go  there  now  ? " 


DISAGREEABLE  MAN  GIVES  UP  HIS  FREEDOM.    227 

"  For  the  same  reason  that  jou  went  there 
eight  years  ago,"  she  said, 

"  I  went  there  for  my  mother's  sake,"  he 
said. 

"  Then  you  will  go  there  now  for  my  sake," 
she  said  deliberately. 

He  looked  up  quickly. 

"  Little  Bernardine,"  he  cried,  "  my  little 
Bemardine — is  it  possible  that  you  care  what 
becomes  of  me  ? " 

She  had  been  leaning  against  the  counter, 
and  now  she  raised  herself,  and  stood  erect,  a 
proud,  dignified  little  figure. 

"Yes,  I  do  care,"  she  said  simply,  and  with 
true  earnestness.  "  I  care  with  all  my  heart. 
And  even  if  I  did  not  care,  you  know,  you 
would  not  be  free.  No  one  is  *free.  You 
know  that  better  than  I  do.  We  do  not 
belong  to  ourselves  :  there  are  countless  people 
depending  on  us,  people  whom  we  have  never 
seen,  and  whom  we  never  shall  see.  What  we 
!do,  decides  what  they  will  be." 

He  still  did/not  speak 

"  But  it  is  not  for  those  others  that  I  plead," 


228  SmPS  THA  T  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

she  continueil.  "  I  plead  for  myself.  I  can't 
spare  you,  indeed,  indeed  I  can't  spare 
you!  .  .  .  ." 

Her  voice  trembled,  but  she  went  on  bravely: 

"So  you  will  go  back  to  the  mountains,"  she 
said.  "  You  will  live  out  your  life  like  a  man. 
Others  may  prove  themselves  cowards,  but  the 
Disagreeable  Man  has  a  better  part  to  play." 

He  still  did  not  speak  Was  it  that  he  could 
not  trust  himself  to  words  ?  But  in  that  brief 
time,  the  thouf:^hts  which  passed  through  his 
mind  were  such  as  to  overwhelm  him.  A 
picture  rose  up  before  him  :  a  picture  of  a  man 
and  woman  leading-  their  lives  together,  each 
happy  in  the  other's  love  ;  not  a  love  born  of 
fancy,  but  a  love  based  on  comradeship  and  true 
understanding  of  the  soul.  The  picture  faded, 
and  the  DisagreeaT^le  Man  raised  his  eyes  and 
looked  at  the  little  figiu'e  standing  near  him. 

"  Little  child,  little  child,"  he  said  wearily, 
"  since  it  is  your  wish,  I  will  go  back  to  the 
mountains." 

Then  he  bent  over  the  counter,  and  put  hia 
hand  on  hers. 


DISAGREEABLE  MAN  GIVES  UP  HIS  FREEDOM.,  "n^ 

"I  will  come  and  see  you  tQ-monow,"  he 
said.  "  I  think  there  are  one  or  two  things  I 
want  to  say  to  you." 

The  next  moment  he  was  gone. 

In  the  afternoon  of  that  same  day  Bernard ine 
went  to  the  City.  She  was  not  unhappy  :  she 
had  been  making  plans  for  herself.  She  would 
work  hard,  and  fill  her  life  as  full  as  possible. 
There  should  be  no  room  for  unhealthy  thought. 
She  would  go  and  spend  her  holidays  in 
Petershof.  There  would  be  pleasure  in  that 
for  him  and  for  her.  She  would  tell  him  so 
to-morrow.    She  knew  he  would  be  glad. 

"  Above  all,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  there  shall 
be  no  room  for  unhealthy  thought.  I  must 
cultivate  my  garden." 

That  was  what  she  was  thinking  of  at  four  in 
the  afternoon  ;  how  she  could  best  cultivate  her 
garden. 

At  five  she  was  lying  unconscious  in  the 
accident-ward  of  the  New  Hospital :  she  had 
been  knocked  down  by  a  waggon,  and  terribly 
injured. 

'*  She  will  not  recover,"  the  Doctor  said  to 


230  SffJPS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

the  nurse.  *'  You  see  she  is  sinking  rapidly. 
Poor  little  thing ! " 

At  six  she  regained  consciousness,  and  opened 
her  eyes.  The  nurse  bent  over  her.  Then  she 
whispered: 

"Tell  the  Disagreeable  Man  how  I  wish  I 
could  have  seen  him  to-moirow.  We  had  so 
much  to  say  to  each  other.     And  now  .  .  .  ." 

The  brown  eyes  looked  at  the  nurse  so 
entreatingly.  It  was  a  long  time  before  she 
could  forget  the  pathos  of  those  brown  eyes. 

A  few  ininutes  later,  she  made  another  sign 
as  though  she  wished  to  speak  Nurse 
Katharine  bent  nearer      Then  she  whispered: 

'■'  Tell  the  Disa£jreeablo  Man  to  go  back  to 
the  mountains,  and  begin  to  build  his  bridge: 
it  must  be  strong  and  .  .  .  ." 

Bernardine  died. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  BUILDING  OP  THE   BRIDOEL 

RoBEBT  Allitsen  came  to  the  old  book-shop  to 
Bee  Zerviah  Holme  before  returning  to  the 
mountains.  He  found  him  reading  Gibbon. 
These  two  men  had  stood  by  Bernardine's 
grave. 

"  I  was  beginning  to  know  her,"  the  old  man 
said 

**  IJiave  always  known  her,"  the  young  man 
said.  "  I  cannot  remember  a  time  when  she 
has  not  been  part  of  my  life." 

"She  loved  you,"  Zerviah  said.  "She  was 
telling  ine  so  the  very  morning  when  you 
caime." 

Thfcii,  with  a  tenderness  which  was  almost 


232  S/IiPS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

foreign  to  him,  ZerViah  told  Robert  Allitsen 
how  Bernardine  had  opened  her  heart  to  him. 
She  had  never  lovqd  any  one  before  :  but  she 
had  loved  the  Disagreeable  Man. 

"  T  did  not  love  him  because  I  was  sorry 
for  him,"  she  had  said.  "  I  loved  him  for 
himself." 

Those  were  her  very  words. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  Disagreeable  Man. 
"  And  God  bless  you  for  telling  me." 

Then  he  added  : 

"  There  were  some  few  loose  sheets  of  paper 
on  the  counter.  She  had  begun  her  book. 
May  I  have  them  ?  " 

Zerviah  placed  them  in  his  hand. 

"  And  this  photograph,"  the  old  man  said 
kindly.     "  I  will  spare  it  for  you." 

The  picture  of  the  little  thin  eager  face  was 
folded  up  with  the  papers. 

The  two  men  parted. 

Zerviah  Holme  went  back  to  his  Roman 
History.  The  Disagreeable  Man  went  back  to 
the  mountains  :  to  live  his  life  out  there,  and 
to  build  his  bridge,  as  we  all  do,  whether  conr 


THE  BUILDING  OF  THE  BRIDGE.  233 

sclously  or  unconsciously.  If  it  breaks  down, 
we  build  it  again. 

"We  will  build  it  stronger  this  time,"  we  say 
to  ourselves. 

So  we  begin  once  more. 

We  are  very  patient. 

And  meanwhile  the  years  pasa. 


THE  ENIX 


s 


THE  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

Santa  Barbara 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  B/ 
STAMPED  BELOW. 


3  1205  02020  8896 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A  A         001  424  040  2 


